Life Turned Upside Down
by Clarilyn
Summary: Harry Potter is used to having his life turned upside down.First he finds out he's a wizard,then he's accused of murder.Returning to hogwarts after a year,his world turns upside down for real this time as he sees someone he never thought he'd see again.
1. Unexpected Visitors

Thump

Life Turned Upside Down

Chapter 1: Unexpected Visitors

DISCLAIMER: As I haven't yet managed to brew a Polyjuice Potion that actually works, I can't claim to be J.K.Rowling.

Thump. Thump-thump.

_Weird,_ thought Harry sleepily. _I'm dreaming that something's jumping on my bed._

Thump-thump.

_Why would something want to jump on my bed?_

Thump-thump.

_What kind of thing is jumping on my bed in the middle of the night?_

Thump! "Harry Potter sir!"

_What kind of thing calls me – OH._

"HARRY POTTER SIR!"

_Great. Now I'm dreaming about Dobby_.

"Harry Potter sir! Sir must wake up! Harry Potter sir is the greatest wizard in the world, Harry Potter sir cannot let them get you, Harry Potter sir_ must_ wake up!"

_Wha– _

"AAAAAAAAHH!" Harry yelled in fright as his eyelids were pried open and he came face to face with a pair of great glass orbs.

"Dobby is so sorry, Harry Potter sir, Dobby shouldn't have scared Harry Potter! Dobby is a bad elf!"

Dobby began pulling his ears and banging his head on the floor. "Bad elf ….bad elf …bad elf…"

"Dobby! Stop it!" Harry, now fully awake, grabbed Dobby by the collar to stop him from hurting himself. "What's the matter? What are you doing here at – he checked his watch – four in the morning?"

Dobby looked up with a panicked expression. "Harry Potter sir in trouble! Harry Potter sir must leave!"

Harry stared at Dobby, bewildered. "Leave?"

Dobby began babbling quickly, at the same time busying himself packing all Harry's belongings he could see into Harry's trunk.

"Dobby is in Hogwarts kitchens, sir, and suddenly Headmaster calls Dobby for tea. Dobby sees three people in Headmaster's office, sir. The bad people say Harry Potter killed Cedric Diggory. The bad people coming for Harry Potter. Harry Potter must run!"

Harry sat down suddenly on his lumpy bed. _Triwizard… Cedric … dead … murder …Harry…run… _

"They think I killed Cedric."

The sentence, spoken aloud, allowed the reality to sink in. Slowly.

Dobby nodded earnestly. "Harry Potter sir must leave!"

"But…but wouldn't Dumbledore warn me? Dumbledore would warn me if such a thing happened, wouldn't he? Dumbledore will help me, I know he will…."

"No time, Harry Potter sir! The bad people come for Harry Potter right away!"

"WHAT? You mean they're on their way here _now_?"

"That's right, Harry potter sir! Here – Dobby finished packing Harry's trunk and shrunk it – Harry Potter must leave at once!"

Harry slipped his trunk into his pocket, undecided. A "pop" outside the house made his mind up for him.

"Thank you, Dobby….."

Pop. Pop. Two more Aurors appeared.

"GO!!"

The first one rang the door bell.

It seemed to take an eternity for Uncle Vernon to stir and answer the door. Harry stood by his bed, frozen, as he heard the door creak open.

"WHAT ON EARTH DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? RINGING MY DOORBELL AT THIS TIME OF THE NIGHT!" bellowed Uncle Vernon in a towering rage.

There was no mistaking Dawlish's cold voice. " We are here by order of the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, to arrest one Harry James Potter who is charged with the murder of Cedric Diggory during the Triwizard Tournament on the…."

_Arrest. Harry. Murder._

It was amazing how Uncle Vernon's attitude could change so quickly.

"Oh, so you've come to take _him_ away, is it? Murder, eh? Can't say I'm surprised. Come in, this way." Uncle Vernon's voice as full of what sounded so unbelievably like glee it was almost scary.

"Harry Potter sir!" whispered Dobby urgently.

Harry snapped out of his daze. Dawlish and the other Aurors were presumably seated in the living room (where the stairs led to) thus effectively cutting off that exit route. He heard Uncle Vernon asking the Aurors to wait while he went to "wake the boy" and panicked. Frantically scanning the room, he found that there was nowhere to hide.

Conclusion: He was trapped.

"Harry Potter sir! Headmaster calls Dobby! Harry Potter must escape!" Dobby's eyes were wide with fear for Harry. As the calls of the faraway Headmaster grew increasingly impatient, Dobby disappeared with a tiny crack, leaving Harry all alone.

_Okay. Don't panic_. thought Harry. _What would Hermione say in a situation like this? Analyze the situation and come up with possible options. _Sneaking downstairs and out of the back door wasn't an option. That left the window. _(Boom-boom. Uncle Vernon was ascending the stairs. Good thing he was obese with heart problems.) _Harry parted the curtains a crack and peeked outside, only to see an Auror on guard in the garden.

He ducked down quickly in case the Auror looked up and suppressed a groan. Escape was now totally out of the question. The other option was hiding. Wait, there was no place to hide. Wonderful.

_Come on, Hermione always has a brilliant idea for any situation, _thought Harry desperately_. You've been around her for four whole years, surely you can remember some of her wise words…… _

Flashback

"But that's impossible!" protested Ron.

"Nonsense. Nothing is impossible as long as you think and plan properly."

"You do know that no amount of planning is going to resurrect the dead, right?"

"Of course there are always exceptions, but that's beside the point. So we hang around long enough to get the password, then we….."

"Mione, hiding in the Slytherin common room for an hour to eavesdrop on them undetected is _bloody impossible_."

"Not if you know where to hide."

"If the Slytherins know their common room as well as we know ours, there _won't_ be anywhere to hide."

"That's where the Polyjuice Potion comes in," smirked Hermione a trifle smugly. "Sometimes the best place to hide is in plain sight."

End Flashback

_In plain sight!_ That was it!

Now he just had to figure out _how_.

**A/N: If you haven't figured it out yet, the flashback is from second year. I'm already working on chapter 2 but I'm not sure when it will be out. And lastly, REVIEW!! **


	2. Escape!

Life Turned Upside Down

Life Turned Upside Down

Chapter 2: Escape!

DISCLAIMER: As I haven't yet managed to brew a Polyjuice Potion that actually works, I can't claim to be J.K.Rowling. There's also this problem about not being able to obtain said person's hair.

……In plain sight….in plain sight…..

How exactly did one hide in plain sight?

He thought back to his second year again. Hermione had brewed them Polyjuice Potion, allowing him and Ron (there'd been a problem with Hermione's) to enter the Slytherin Common Room as Crabbe and Goyle. They'd sat right there for a whole hour and none of the Slytherins ever suspected that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley had visited their common room.

So, in this case…..

Hiding in plain sight meant walking right up to the Aurors and them letting him pass right by.

_Ha. Impossible_, thought Harry, unconsciously echoing Ron. _Wait. Not if they don't know it's me._

Good. The plan was actually starting to make sense.

Harry racked his brains. Obviously, he couldn't masquerade as Aunt Petunia or Dudley (Aunt Petunia was too tall and he couldn't replicate Dudley's enormous body frame even if he stuffed the whole of his meager blanket in his shirt) and anyone else's presence in the house would be questioned. Especially in the middle of the night like this.

Of course! Middle of the night. _Burglars._

In the few precious seconds he had left before Uncle Vernon reached the top, Harry hurried to carry out the insane plan he'd concocted.

…………………………………………………………………………………………...

Finally, thought Vernon, as he arrived panting and puffing at the top of the stairs and sweating profusely. (It was pathetic really. The average person didn't even pant as much after running a five-mile-marathon. What with Uncle Vernon and Dudley, sometimes Harry really pitied the stairs.)Vernon was happier than he'd ever been since that fateful night fourteen years ago. After tonight he would be rid of that freak for good. Blissful normalcy. All was right within the world once more.

"EEEEEEEEEEEK!" an ear-splitting shriek originating from his and Petunia's room sliced through his ear drums. _Oww,_ he thought, _sounds higher than 10,000Hz should really be outlawed_. He turned towards Harry's door. _Come to think of it_, _that shriek sounded rather familiar…… PETUNIA!_

Valiantly ignoring his exhaustion, Vernon whipped around and barreled into his room. Petunia was screaming her head off; clutching her blankets and holding a fluffy pink pillow in front her like a shield.

The source of her terror was in the form of a tall, burly figure in baggy black pants and shirt. He was taking no notice of Petunia and going through the dressing table, throwing all her silver and other valuables into a sack he was holding.

The man looked up as Vernon burst through the door. Startled, he turned at once, grabbed his sack and jumped out of the window, vaulted over the porch roof and took off across the lawn.

As Petunia bemoaned the loss of her silver, Vernon wasn't all that sure that all _was_ right within the world once more.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Loud panting confirmed that Uncle Vernon was nearing the top. Harry hastily tied a black cloth around his face, covering all his features except for his eyes like he'd seen the criminals in Dudley's television programmes do. He looked down at his clothes. He'd pulled on a black shirt and black pants with black shoes to match. (He was pretty sure all burglars on television wore black.) Lying on the bed was a sack, of sorts. In truth it was his blanket dyed black by emptying all his inkwells onto it. He hoped that no one would notice him in the semi- darkness.

Harry stared in dismay at his attire. All the Muggle clothes he had, of course, were hand-me-downs from Dudley. No self- respecting burglar (or innocent murder convict pretending to be one) would ever be caught dead in this outfit. Combine that with Harry's small, skinny figure, and he looked positively laughable.

_Damnit, what to do, what to do……I'm so dead……_

In his desperation, something in him sparked. His emotions fueled his magic as it coursed through him, igniting a part that had lain dormant and insignificant up till now.

Suddenly Harry felt strange. The ceiling seemed distinctly nearer than he remembered it. His chin began to itch, and when he reached up to scratch it he very nearly yelled in fright. It was covered in bristles. Come to think of it, his hands didn't look much like his either….

He caught sight of his reflection in the screen of a broken television in a corner of the room and had to shove his hand over his mouth to keep him from shouting. Staring right back at him with eyes wide with shock, was a dark, burly man with a crew cut. He had a dangerous air about him, exactly like your typical movie criminal. Though the effect was rather ruined by his flabbergasted expression.

_What?! I can't believe this…… Can't be…I'm a METAMORPHAGUS?!_

Deciding to ponder this new development later, (namely when there was less danger of being carted off to Azkaban), Harry shut his gaping mouth and stared at his "sack" thoughtfully. Having had the "no-magic-over-the-summer" rule drilled so effectively into his head, he hadn't really considered the possibility of using magic to help. But it made sense, he realized. He was, after all, already a murder convict. Having a few charges of underage magic added to the list was hardly going to matter.

With a quick flick of his wand, he transfigured the sodden mass of now-black cloth into a thick sack. (Thank Merlin he knew a good lot of spells by now. At least the Triwizard tournament had been good for _something_.) Another wave and a _Reducio _later his clothes fitted his new body perfectly. They'd still been rather loose as it was quite difficult to match Dudley's width, despite the fact that they'd belonged to Dudley three years ago. How to poor boy still managed to walk would forever be a mystery.

Uncle Vernon's huffing and puffing got noticeably louder. _Crap. He's reached the top already. _Harry shouldered his sack and peered out cautiously. Uncle Vernon was bent double over the banisters, trying to catch his breath. Harry eased the door open a little and slipped quietly into Petunia's room, where the window was big enough for him to slip out.

Harry crept carefully round the bed towards the window. The dark kept him reasonably well-hidden and Petunia was facing the other way. He steeped around the dressing table and –

CRASH! _Ooops._

The lights came on.

"EEEEEEEEEEEEK!"

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Dawlish drummed his foot impatiently. He was beginning to wish that he had insisted on getting Potter himself. That fat lump of a man – what was his name?Bernard? – was painfully slow. _Moron. Wonder what he was thinking of when he bought a double storey house._

Suddenly the man (ah yes, Vernon) rushed down, panic written all over his face. "Burglars!" he yelled. "Burglars! Call the police!"

The three Aurors stared at each other blankly. Call _who_?

"Well, don't just sit there, you idiots, call the police! CALL – THE – POLICE!" panted Vernon from the bottom of the stairs, where he seemed to have collapsed from exhaustion. Apparently a trip up and down the stairs at top speed had been too much for his heart to take.

Suddenly one of the Aurors' eyes bulged. "Oh! I get it! Don't you remember there was something about Muggle security men in Muggle Studies? The ones called please-men or something?"

The other slapped his thigh. "Oh, right! The ones in the dark blue uniform and carry a wooden bat instead of a wand, isn't it?"

"And you reach them with the – "

"FELLYTONE!"

Vernon promptly fainted.

The Aurors looked at him and shrugged. One cautiously approached the phone.

"Do you pick up the receiver first or dial the number first?"

"I dunno, do I? You're the one who got an 'O' in Muggle Studies."

He picked up the receiver and carefully put it to his ear. Evidently satisfied, he lifted a finger. Then he frowned.

"Was it eight-eight-eight or nine-nine-nine?"

...

The lone Auror standing on guard in the garden was bored. And resentful. He'd been woken up at this ridiculous hour to stand guard _outside in the cold _while his colleagues got all the excitement.

A commotion went up at the opposite end of the garden. His spirits picked up. Perhaps he would get to be part of the excitement after all. Visions of himself single-handedly stopping Potter from escaping brought a smile to his face. Who knew, maybe he could even replace Dawlish as Fudge's pet Auror.

When he got close enough to hear Vernon's shouts, he was disappointed. It was just an ordinary Muggle burglar who had the misfortune to be here on _this _night of all nights. And he couldn't even use magic on the Muggle, not if he didn't want a ton of extra paperwork._ Bother_.

As the Muggle ran in the general direction of the gate, he moved to intercept him. Up close the Muggle looked even bigger and muscular. He gulped. Confronting the Muggle physically hadn't been such a good idea after all.

When the Muggle looked at him, sizing him up, his courage failed him. Screw the paperwork. He whipped out his wand and pointed it at the Muggle in front of him.

"Now, surrender and don't move," he warned as menacingly as he could, at the same time wondering what Muggles did with burglars. Then he realized how stupid he must look to a Muggle, pointing a skinny piece of wood like it could shoot. (Well, technically it could, but the Muggles didn't know that, did they?)

"Now this might look harmless," he told the disbelieving Muggle, "but actually it's _very _dangerous. Like a gun." He looked thoughtful then added," Well, actually it _is _a gun. Disguised as a stick. Latest telelogy." He was pleased with himself. Muggles were usually scared of guns. They shot things called bullets. And he'd remembered the term "telelogy". Or was it "telenology"?

It was just as well that he missed the fact that the Muggle in question was in fact trying to conceal his mirth.

The Auror smirked as the Muggle ducked down immediately at the mention of "gun". But his glee was short-lived. There was a _whoosh _as something flew through the space that had been occupied by the Muggle's head moments ago and –

SMACK.

A lump of fluffy pink lace hit him full in the face.

Three more pillows flew out of the window in rapid succession.

SMACK. SMACK. SMACK.

He swore.

By this time the Muggle was almost at the gate. He pointed his wand at him. "Hold it right there!" he yelled desperately, not wanting to prove a failure. "Or I really _will _shoot!"

Miraculously the Muggle hesitated. Then he threw his sack at the Auror, who, not wanting to be hit in the face for the fifth time that night, dived to the side (which happened to be into a bush). He got his hair full of nettle leaves for his trouble. By the time he'd got up and dusted himself down, his quarry was no longer in sight.

He picked up the sack of things the burglar had stolen. Well, at least he hadn't proved to be a _complete _failure.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

"For goodness' sake," snapped Dawlish. "We're here to get Potter, not to help nab some burglar. Anyway, I doubt the burglar will get farther than the garden."

The telephone receiver was obediently dropped.

Dawlish strode over to Vernon. "_Rennervate."_

Vernon woke up spluttering.

"Now, we'd like to see Potter, if you please."

"B-but the burglar….Pet-Petunia……"

"I have a man in the garden. He won't get far," assured Dawlish. "Now, about Potter."

"Oh, yes, the boy." agreed Vernon. He took the Aurors upstairs (more like the Aurors helped him upstairs) and banged on Harry's door.

"BOY! COME OUT HERE! RIGHT NOW!"

Silence.

"Impudent brat," muttered Vernon, kicking the door open and entering. Dawlish cleared his throat importantly and began, "Harry James Potter, you are under arrest for the murder of Cedric Diggory…….."

"Sir?"

"……..what is it?"

"He's not here."

"On the last day of the Triwizard Tournament – WHAT?"

"Um… he's not here. Potter, I mean. He's gone."

"_GONE?"_

Dawlish pushed past his colleague and strode into the room. "_Homenum revelio!"_

Nothing.

Dawlish swore. Loudly.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

In the garden, the Auror heard Dawlish's yells and felt better. It was always comforting to know that you weren't the only failure.

**A/N: I'm so sorry for taking such a long time! Actually it was ready more than a week ago but I couldn't find time to type it out. I really hope you enjoy it. And a million thanks to all my four reviewers! You reviews are very much appreciated! As for DeliaDee's review about Dobby…. I'll try to explain it…..**

**Dobby doesn't know anywhere to bring Harry to except Hogwarts and they can't go there because there were still Aurors about and it was very risky for Harry to go there. Not to mention Umbridge. Anyways Harry can't hide out at Hogwarts because once school year starts students could be sneaking **_**anywhere**_** and Harry might be spotted.**

**There! Does it make sense? I hope so. And some of you with author alert may notice I have a new story up. Tangled Web of Love. That story has been written till Chapter 4 already where I got stuck and has been posted till Chapter 2. So for now I am mainly working on this story, no worries. I will try to update as soon as possible with upcoming exams. **


	3. Lost

Life Turned Upside Down

Life Turned Upside Down

Chapter 3: Lost

DISCLAIMER: Nope. No luck yet.

Pain. Terrible aching pain. That's all he could feel. Not surprising, though. Pain had been all he could feel since………well, he had no idea. But one thing he knew for sure, it was a really, really, really long time ago.

But this pain was somehow different from what he'd grown accustomed to. You could pinpoint where what pain was coming from, where were the tender points, where there was less pain. It could be described as more _definite_, for lack of a better word. Slightly different from the pain he'd gotten used to since "a really, really, really long time ago", where he'd felt like an iron grip had wrapped its fingers around his heart, crushing it very, very slowly. Like a tear was spreading down his soul, every rip a nightmare. Like being burnt in every direction possible with a substance so hot it couldn't possibly be fire. Like a knife inside him was hacking its way out from his very core.

All in all, as painful as _this_ pain was, it was definitely on improvement. Quite a big one at that. The agonizing burning had decreased to a sensation of being pricked with a zillion fat, sharp needles. That went right into your bones. Through them, even.

He was never complaining about an injection ever again.

Then he noticed something else. There were little spots of light swimming at the sides of his vision. And for the first time since said long period of time, he had a choice, control over something. Not much really, just whether he wanted the light to get brighter or go away. But at least it was a start. And he did that by……..

Opening or closing his eyes?

Strange. He never remembered closing his eyes. In fact all the time he'd always been straining his eyes, wiling them to see anything, anything at all beyond the suffocating darkness, _anything_. Somehow the black nothingness had scared him even worse than he had ever been.

The lights were fading. his eyes were sliding shut.

No. Nononononononononono. He'd waited too long for this. To see again. Light, light that illuminated darkness. Light that made darkness go away. He had wanted nothing else for as long as he could remember. For the darkness to go away. He struggled to open his eyes.

The light brightened so suddenly it was too much for his retinas to take. His eyes rolled back into his head and he blacked out.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Albus Dumbledore worriedly sipped his tea, inwardly wondering how on earth he was going to convince Fudge to at least give Harry a proper trial. The way things were going though, Dumbledore thought he would be lucky to see Harry at all before the poor boy was carted off to Azkaban.

_Hmm……Wonder if I can blackmail Fudge……_

Too bad Lucius Malfoy probably had much, much more blackmail material than Dumbledore would ever get his hands on. And much, much more money as well. You wouldn't believe how far money could go these days.

Dumbledore idly stirred his tea. His mind unhelpfully decided to play tricks on him and rearranged the tea leaves in his mind's eye to look like a Grim carrying a lightning bolt in its mouth. A limp one. Dumbledore gave a start and pointedly looked away from his cup, superstitiously vanishing the tea leaves for good measure.

He eyed the Auror sitting opposite him. Their eyes met briefly, and Dumbledore gave him his best know-it-all smile. The Auror shivered and fidgeted nervously in his seat. Dumbledore grinned to himself. Having had taught nearly all of the current Ministry personnel definitely had its plus side.

Just then, the gargoyles outside his office reported a very angry man waving a green bowler hat was demanding entry. Well, more like screaming at the two "useless lumps of stone" to budge out of his way. Sighing, Dumbledore told them to admit Fudge.

The Auror stood to attention as a furious Fudge stomped into Dumbledore's office. Fudge, however, paid him no mind as he was too busy yelling at Dumbledore.

"DUMBLEDORE! THIS IS GOING TOO FAR! WHERE IS THE BOY? ANSWER ME AT ONCE! BEFORE I AM FORCED TO SEARCH THE SCHOOL!"

"Do calm down and have a seat, Cornelius. Lemon drop? I am sure we can – "

Then it hit him.

_"Harry wasn't with his relatives?"_

"I'm not in the mood for your mind games, Dumbledore! I want the boy, NOW!"

As Dumbledore began the fruitless endeavours of pacifying Fudge, he didn't know whether to be worried or relieved.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

He didn't know how long he'd spent lying on the stone cold floor, floating in and out of consciousness in between days and weeks. Since he'd found himself here, he'd been pleasantly surprised to find that he _did_ have a few options, like which direction he would like to lie in. Not much, since he'd be overwhelmed by pain if he tried to move too much, but better than having no choice but to endure the pain and darkness like he once had, not so long ago. It hadn't so much been the pain (though _of course_ it had hurt, terribly) than the utter helplessness, the hopelessness of the situation. Usually when there was pain one would grit one's teeth and bear through it. Because you just knew that sooner or later the pain would end, and relief would come. It had to. But in that place, he'd felt like it was useless to bear with it, he couldn't stand it anymore, he wouldn't last much longer. But at the same time there was a feeling of conviction that this hellish place would make _sure_ he lasted forever, and that the searing, blinding pain would last as long as he did – forever. With no break in sight. And it hadn't helped that the only thing that had kept him going on before – his family – had been no more.

_All because he failed._

He choked back a sob. They'd been depending on him. He'd promised them; he'd promised he'd keep them safe. They'd trusted him. And he'd failed them.

They would never trust him again. But it hardly mattered, didn't it? Because there wouldn't ever be a next time. They'd trusted him with their lives and he'd failed them.

More tears welled up in his eyes. His body was racked violently with sobs, before he passed out again.

Thunder rumbled overhead and rain soaked his robes as his unconscious body shivered in the cold.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Panic and chaos reigned in Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. A furious, ranting Sirius was being restrained from rushing off to do something rash (like killing the Minister of Magic) by a strained, equally worried Remus. A shouting match was going on between Ron and Molly Weasley, who was trying to forbid her youngest son from going after Harry at once, and it only intensified when Ginny and Hermione joined the match. In a corner, a pair of red-headed twins with identical scary expressions were plotting Fudge's gruesome torture and death. Even the usually calm, collected Minerva was hotly abusing the Ministry.

Albus Dumbledore just sat in his seat developing a headache. Fudge had not been satisfied easily, and even after Dumbledore had sworn under Vertiaserum that he really had _no_ idea where Harry was, Fudge had visited continuously for nearly a week to "discuss matters". So Dumbledore had endured a pleasant week of tedious, pointless meetings. and after that Fudge had stationed Aurors at Hogwarts to monitor Dumbledore's every move for a further two weeks. That was why he had only just notified the Order (plus a few more eavesdropping miscreants) of the warrant for Harry's arrest and the boy's disappearance from his relatives' residence, almost three weeks after the actual events occurred.

Two hours, more shouts and three supplies of calming draught later, everyone had calmed down sufficiently for Albus Dumbledore to organize a search party for Harry. It was difficult as Harry could've covered a lot of ground in three weeks, so the search and to be far and wide. Dumbledore could only hope that they would find Harry before the Ministry did.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Fudge stood impatiently at a counter while the short woman behind the counter rummaged through her files.

"Hurry up, woman!" he barked at her. I'm a very busy man; I can't stand here all day!"

The woman finally looked up form her files.

"I'm sorry, Minister, there is no record of such a wand currently in use."

"What? That can't be! Dawlish! Are you _absolutely_ sure you got the details right?"

"Holly and phoenix feather core, eleven inches….yes, I'm quite sure these are accurate, sir."

Fudge turned back to the woman. "And are _you_ absolutely _sure _that there is no record of this wand?"

"I can double-check if you like, sir. Please wait a moment." She began going through her files again.

Fudge didn't fancy waiting in front of the blasted counter for another fifteen minutes.

"I've no time to wait for you to fumble around. I want to see your superior," he demanded.

"Right this way, sir." she said pointing to a door on her left, trying not to sound annoyed. Fudge swept past her into the office, closely followed by Dawlish. The door banged shut and she heaved a sigh of relief.

"Johnson! You are in charge of the registry of tracked wands, correct?"

The Ministry official, Johnson, fell out of his chair at the sight of the Minister himself in his somewhat unorganized office. He tried to kick a few files lying about on the floor out of sight under his desk.

"Yes, Minister, I am. Can I help you?"

"You most certainly can. I need all documents regarding the activities of a holly and phoenix feather core, eleven inch wand, belonging to one Harry James Potter," read Fudge from a piece of parchment Dawlish had handed him.

"Ahh… yes … holly and phoenix feather core….eleven inches….." muttered Johnson, turning the pages of a large, old, fragile-looking index. . "Only one record on page 5013, file XVII. File XVII……."he bit his lip desperately. Which shelf was file XVII supposed to be on?

"Umm…….got it! Shelf A247 (bii)!" He scuttled over to the shelf in question.

It was empty.

Johnson started helplessly at the files and parchment scattered all over the office floor. How was he supposed to search all of those for one particular file?

Dawlish guessed what was going on and mouthed "Summoning Charm" behind Fudge. Johnson's mouth formed an "O" and he smacked his head.

"Hurry up for goodness sake! How much more incompetent can you get?"

Outside, the clerk snickered at the irony of Fudge calling someone else incompetent.

Johnson raised his wand. "Accio file XVII!"

a large but empty wooden file zoomed towards his head, forcing him to duck. Random pieces of parchment from all corners of the office picked themselves off the floor and one even flew in through the window. Soon everyone's sight was completely obscured by flying parchment. Johnson was hiding under his desk, while Fudge could be heard yelling, "_What is the meaning of this_?" before he got a piece of parchment in his mouth, which effectively shut him up. For a moment, anyway.

Dawlish took advantage of the moment of silence to yell, "Finite Incantatem!"

The papers dropped back to the floor at once.

Johnson avoided looking at the seething, rapidly reddening Fudge and tried again.

"Accio page 5013!"

This time, only one piece of parchment rose. Johnson plucked it out of the air in relief.

"Holly…..phoenix feather…..eleven….ah, yes." He cleared his throat and read, "Holly wood, single phoenix feather, eleven inches from Oliverander's. Has been in use for four years. Owner Harry James Potter. Snapped on the 8th of August 1995 for involvement in murder."

"Dawlish registered what this meant before Fudge did. _Snapped…?!_ His face went pale. "Do you have any other documents pertaining to this wand?"

Johnson shook his head. "No, all other documents are destroyed as soon as the wand is no longer in use, or as soon as the tracking charm expires when its owner comes of age."

"_Who on earth told you that the wand was snapped?"_

Johnson looked scared.

"It wasn't? But we received notification from the Auror division that Harry James Potter was to be arrested on the night of the 8th of august and that his wand would be snapped on the spot, so we updated our files accordingly."

Fudge, who had only just caught up with the events, turned a dangerous purple colour.

"DO YOU MEAN THAT….THAT WE CAN'T TRACK POTTER'S WAND?"

Johnson looked ashen. "Umm….W-Well technically the tracking charm is still working, so…so the and should still be tracked…………j-just w-we…uh…won't b-be….be able t-t-to receive the um….in-info…information……"

Fudge exploded.

"YOU. ARE. _FIRED!_"

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for not updating in such a long while, but I **_**did **_**tell you my exams were coming up, didn't I? Still…..I had this ready written since a month ago, actually….I just wasn't allowed to use the computer due to exams. My apologies! Anyways, I've done lots of daydreaming during my exams (hence the unsatisfactory score – I can't believe I was so **_**careless!**_**) so I've got lots of scenes for the next few chapters already. The wait for chapter four shouldn't be too long….would you like a shorter wait and shorter chapter, or longer wait and longer chapter?**

**Personally I think my chapters' length are quite satisfactory already – though I've seen **_**much **_**longer – just wondering about your opinion. **

**Oh yeah, and thanks to ALL my wonderful reviewers. A common trait of all fanfiction authors – they LOVE reviews! and I'm no exception. Before you go…..REVIEW!! ******


	4. 4 Godric's Hollow

Life Turned Upside Down

Life Turned Upside Down

DISCLAIMER: Nope, no luck yet. Maybe in a century's time……..

Chapter 4: Godric's Hollow

Albus Dumbledore was very, very worried. The search party the Order had sent out had reported back with no results, and his own visit to the boy's relatives had yielded little clue as to where Harry might be. To say they had been displeased to see him, resplendent in his purple flowing robes, on their doorstep in the middle of dinner was a gross understatement. Vernon had denied him entry and even attempted to have him physically removed from the property until a neighbour was spotted watching from the window, which was when they quickly ushered him into the house and told him to leave – immediately – without the neighbours seeing him. Quoting Vernon, "Do whatever it is that you freaks do and get out of my house. Make sure the neighbours don't see you."

Dumbledore had tried to question them but they had stonily refused to cooperate. He had to resort to using Legillimency. He didn't learn much as the amount of attention the Dursleys paid to Harry was about just as much as Ron Weasley did in History of Magic. He did, however, manage to find out that Harry had still been around on the morning of his attempted arrest because the Dursleys had asked (well, more like yelled at) him to cook another omelette for Dudley.

Seeing that everyone had arrived, Dumbledore called the meeting to order.

"Well? Any new ideas?"

"Actually, I've thought of something. It's highly unlikely, but there's always a chance……" said Remus hesitantly.

"Anything's worth a try. We've got nothing to lose. Well, unless it involves storming Voldemort's lair, I guess, in which case I'd say……" Sirius attempted to joke weakly. He was running out of ways to curb his worry and had decided to test if humour would work.

No one laughed. Dumbledore managed a grimace.

Apparently, it didn't.

"Remus, you were saying?"

Well, Harry once let it slip that he'd never seen his parents' grave. Since he has like….no place to go now…..d'you think…..it just might be possible…..maybe he'd return to see his childhood home."

"He doesn't know where it is," interrupted Mcgonagall.

"Are you kidding? As long as you open your mouth and ask, anyone can find Godric's Hollow. It's a bloody historical site!"

"Language, Tonks!" chided Molly.

"I still think that this whole thing stinks of Voldemort," grumbled Molly.

"How many times do I have to tell you the Dark Lord is just as baffled as we are!" Snape retorted hotly. "And he doesn't take kindly to being baffled," he winced, rubbing his left arm. Voldemort had decided to throw a "little" temper tantrum which had consisted of a round of blindly thrown Crustacius Curses, five of which had hit Snape, whose unfortunate turn it had been to present his report. He'd returned to Headquarters badly injured only to be greeted by his none-too-sympathic host, though to Sirius' credit he had bandaged Snape to the best of his abilities.

"So, anyone else got any ideas?"

No one said anything.

"All right then, Remus and Kingsley, both of you go check out Godric's Hollow tomorrow. Report back by evening. I don't expect a Death Eater attack, but bring your emergency portkey just in case," said Dumbledore.

"Constant vigilance," nodded Moody.

"Meeting dismissed."

…………………………………………………………………………………………...

BOY-WHO-LIVED CHARGED WITH MURDER!

by Rita Skeeter

Harry Potter has always been famous since he defeated You-Know-Who at the age of a year old. However, it seems he is unsatisfied with his dame as he constantly thrives for more attention. Last year, despite all Dumbledore's precautions, he entered the Triwizard Tournament becoming the youngest Hogwarts champion, pushing his real well-deserved fellow Hogwarts champion Cedric Diggory out of the spotlight. Due to good relation ties with two of the judges, Dumbledore and Ludo Bagman (Head of Department of Magical Sports) Harry Potter manages to share the top stop with Diggory after the first two tasks, boiling it down to the final Third Task to decided the winner.

Upon reaching the Triwizard Cup, Harry Potter was dismayed to find Diggory already ahead of him. Unwilling to share the glory, Harry Potter was said to have relentlessly murdered –yes, dear readers—murdered his schoolmate to ensure his victory. Eye witnesses say that Harry Potter and Diggory disappeared from the field for some time before Potter was seen returning with Diggory's lifeless body.

When asked about the Ministry's lack of action before now, Minister Cornelius Fudge replied that investigation had been underway ever since Diggory's murder last June. A team of four Aurrors were sent to Potter's residence on the 8th of August to apprehend Potter. However, Potter was found to have left his home.

Anyone who seens Potter is asked to alert the Ministy immediately.

Remus scowled at his copy of the Daily Prophet before wadding it up into a ball and throwing it across the room into the wastepaper basket with perfect aim. Sirius looked up wearily.

"What'd it say now?"

Remus told him.

Sirius retrieved the paper from the wastepaper basket and started ripping it into shreds.

Both were distracted by the ringing of the doorbell. Sirius threw the mess of paper at his feet one last dirty look before transforming with a pop. The big black Grim continued chewing up the offending parchment.

Remus took several calming breaths (not that he really needed them anymore, watching the paper getting ripped up had had a strangely calming effect) and opened the door. Kingsley stood outside.

"Behind the empty frame to the right of the cupboard," said Kingsley as a sort of bizarre password. It was where Dumbledore hid his stash of lemon drops in his office.

Remus gave a small quirk of his mouth at Dumbledore's choice of passwords. "Just let me get my cloak," said Remus, gesturing from him to enter. Kingsley sat himself down on the couch as Remus disappeared upstairs. Moments later, Remus returned with his cloak and they made for the door.

There was a growl from a previously unnoticed black dog in a corner before it was replaced by Sirius Black.

"Your dog needs a walk," Sirius told Remus

Remus restrained a groan. "Padfoot, I'm sorry, but you can't come. Dumbledore told you to stay here, remember? It's for your own safety. You promised!"

"That was before Harry disappeared! After Dumbledore promised to keep him safe!"

"Well, I'll take my dog out for a walk tomorrow, okay?"

"Your dog needs a walk now."

"What if it doesn't get one?"

"It will probably sulk for days, bark the place down, and possibly pee all over the house."

Remus paled. "You wouldn't."

"Fifth year," Sirius reminded him.

Remus threw up his hands in exasperation.

"FINE!"

………………………………………………………………………………………...

Remus stared vacantly at the sight of the derelict old ruin which had once been the bright cheery home of his best friends. The gate hung miserably on its creaking hinges, wild growth almost covering it. The rose shrubs along the now-nonexistent sand path leading up to the house had long since been replaced by weeds. The forlorn structure gave out an aura of foreboding and loneliness. A standing reminder of the tragic night hat change history forever.

_And our lives,_ thought Remus sorrowfully. _Prongs…_

Padfoot whined and licked his hand comfortingly. Forcing down his whirling emotions and memories, he pushed the door opened. Kingsley gave him a small smile of encouragement.

Beside him, Padfoot suddenly froze. Remus followed his lineof vision and saw why. Lying on his back, bruised and bloody in tattered robes in the middle of the expanse floor, was the person they'd all be looking for—Harry Potter.


	5. CaringHealing

Life Turned Upside Down

DISCLAIMER: Nope, no luck yet. Maybe in a century's time……..

**A/N: Ahhhhh……I know, I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Mid year just passed, and I had a whole list of things to do….and before I know it it's time to study for the End-of-year tests….really important!!!! and fanfiction just had to be pushed aside….anyways now it's the holidays I'll try to make it up to you with weekly updates. Note the word: "TRY"!!!!! **

Chapter 5

"HARRY!"

Remus wasn't sure when Sirius had transformed, but the next thing he knew Sirius was kneeling beside his godson shaking him gently. Kingsley looked horrified, both at Harry's condition and fear that someone might see the escaped mass-murdering lunatic. Though the former was much, much more pressing.

Sirius was beyond caring. He was shaking and howling at Harry to wake up, promising him he wouldn't ever see the Dursleys again if he would, threatening to ground him for the rest of his natural life if he didn't. Sirius' bawling shook Remus out of his shock. Trying to act as professionally as possible, he knelt down beside Kingsley, who was trying to check his injuries, and felt for a pulse. He panicked; the body was as cold as the stone floor it was lying on, pulse absent. Eyes widening, he gripped the wrist till his knuckles turned white and nearly fainted in relief. There. So faint it was almost nonexistent, but there nevertheless, a pulse. The rhythm was irregular and the intervals in between were way too long to be normal.

Kingsley, being less emotionally attached to the Potters hence being less emotional than the other two, shakily took control of the situation.

"Remus, you help me carry the boy. We're portkeying to Hogwarts – cross your fingers and hope the Ministry won't notice. There's no way we can risk Apprating him. Black, get back to headquarters immediately and inform Dumbledore we've found the boy."

"I'm not leaving him," Sirius shot back stubbornly.

"Padfoot," pleaded Remus. "You can't go to Hogwarts. Umbridge's there. She'll turn you in faster than you can say 'Quidditch'."

"So that makes it safe for _Harry_ to go there?"

Kingsley made to open his mouth but shut it again. How _could _he have forgotten about the murder charge?

"I'll help Remus get Harry back to Headquarters and you can go to Hogwarts to get Poppy," snapped Sirius. "Moony? On three."

Remus lifted the boy gently with Sirius cradling his head and laid a finger on it. Within three seconds the portkey activated, depositing them on the floor in the kitchen of Girmmauld Palace.

Sirius laid Harry gently on the coach and rushed to get the medical kit they kept at Girmmauld. He arrived just in time to hear an air- renting shriek- Poppy had just caught sight of Harry.

"WHAT ON EARTH HAPPNED TO HIM?" ranted the Mediwitch, circling Harry and prodding him with her wand. She waved it at him, stared at the report and paled dramatically. "I AM _HORRIFIED _THAT HE IS STILL ALIVE!" She began muttering. "Blood- Replenishing Potion….most definitely…cuts won't heal…must've been an anti-clotting curse…those wounds look weeks old at least…badly infected…_horrible_ state…"

Remus really didn't want to know how Harry had gotten himself into such a state. He forced himself to continue listening.

"….high concentration of dark magic…after effects of the Cruciatus…ouch, must've been at least ten minutes….never seen such a damage….AAAHH!!"_KY68R-XW6BC-DVQJ4-H69TW-9DD6BKY68R-XW6BC-DVQJ4-H69TW-9DD6BKY68R-XW6BC-DVQJ4-H69TW-9DD6B_

She'd just uncovered a huge, deep gash on his stomach, as badly infected as only an old wound would be, but still oozing as much blood as it would when it was fresh. Further inspection showed raw, burnt flesh on his chest and his back had been repeatedly slashed.

Horrified was just not a strong enough word anymore. Remus felt the contents of his stomach swirling up uncomfortably and ran for the nearest toilet. Sirius followed shortly afterward. Even Madam Pomfrey was so shaken she had to sit down.

"Never seen such a bad case," she whispered shakily. "By all rights he should've been long dead!"

Sirius and Remus returned, convinced they'd seen the worst. Boy were they wrong. Broken ribs, every single one of them, and one of those punctured a lung, which by the way was filled with water as a result of pneumonia. Shattered- _shattered_ femur and collarbone, literally in pieces. One reversed kneecap, another broken arm, damaged spiral cord, and with a severe case of malnutrition to top it off. Apparently he'd hadn't eaten in a month.

Sirius held Harry's mouth open gently as Poppy eased potion after potion down his throat. Slowly, Sirius sucked in a breath of relief as a pale shade of pink began creeping up the white skin. The blood that had been flowing freely from his wounds stemmed and dried, but they wouldn't close, being too severe and badly infected.

Sirius stared, strained at his godson's face. They'd found him face down in a pool of blood and glass shards, and his face was pretty badly cut up. He gently wiped a trace of blood off Harry's face, and winced when he noticed he'd dragged a shrapnel of glass across Harry's cheek without meaning to. The fresh red blood trickled out, mingling with the dull red of the dried blood on his face, contrasting sharply with his pale complexion.

"_Tergeo,_" said Poppy, siphoning off the blood and glass on Harry's face. "I've removed the anti-clotting curse, but it's done quite some damage already. These cuts will have to heal the Muggle way – my healing charms won't work."

Sirius panicked. "They _will_ heal though, won't they?"

"You're worried about _those_ minor cuts? All they'll leave are scars that will probably fade with time! In case you didn't notice, he has malnutrition, pneumonia, not to mention far more broken bones than what's healthy, and you're worried about _cuts?_ Thank Merlin he didn't have a case of magical exhaustion as well, because as far as I could determine his magic was the only thing sustaining him. If his magic had given out before that……" She shook her head. "He's had it really bad this time. I….I can't really tell if he'll pull through. Any one of those injuries could've been fatal, let alone……." She sighed. "I really shouldn't be this pessimistic. His condition isn't stable yet, but it's hopeful. And he's strong."

Sirius clutched his godson's hand tightly, forcing the dozens of unsavoury scenarios out of his head. _I've already lost you once. I can't lose you again. _He swallowed. _Please pull through. If not for yourself, then for your family. Pull through, Harry. You__ have __to.___

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sirius, Remus and Poppy didn't get much sleep over the next two weeks. They were constantly watching over their frail patient, and there had been way too many close calls when they'd really thought they'd lost him. Finally, Poppy had declared him stable had definitely on the mend, albeit slowly. To ensure there would be no complications (_Dark magic is tricky and unpredictable, and it lingers over its victoms much longer than it might seem. In most cases it is best to leave the victim's natural magic defenses to fight the dark magic residue, assuming the victim is magically capable. – Clause XI _of _The Healer's Handbook; Dealing with Dark Curses Vol. II)_, he had been put into a healing coma. These could last for any period of time from a few days to several years. Judging by the extent of Harry's injurues, though, he wouldn't be waking up anytime soon.

School had long since started by then, but sometimes Ron and Hermione would be given permission to come for a visit. Harry never gave any response – generally people in comas never did – but it didn't deter the two loyal friends. Ron would keep Harry updated on the world of Quidditch, mostly about the Gryffindor team and the Chudley Cannons, while Hermione told him of all the lessons he was missing out on, what topics which professor had covered, and each would roll their eyes while listening to the other talk to Harry.

"Professor Snape covered healing draughts today, guess what, Harry, he only ducked twenty points from Gryffindor! (Probably' cause you weren't there. Shut up, Ron.) I think my boomslang skin was cut slightly bigger than my butober slices, though, the texture wasn't very good (at least yours didn't explode, mine nearly did. That's your own fault Ron, can't you tell roots from shoots yet? Seriously!)…….and you won't believe the old hag we got for a DADA professor. I mean, there's absolutely _nothing _in the curriculum that's going to be of any use! It's plain she's just some Ministry lackey Fudge sent here to spy on Dumbledore. I've read the text she's set us this year; absolute tosh. You should hear what it has to say about hexes ……."

"We had Quidditch tryouts yesterday, mate, you should've been there. We really could do with your Firebolt this year, Angelina says Ravenclaw's new seeker could pose a threat. She's the new captain, you know. She was devastated when you didn't show up for tryouts. Ginny's the new seeker, but her Cleansweep's no match for your Firebolt……."

Madam Pomfrey visited every weekend to check up on his progress, while Sirius and Remus took turns to keep him company at all times in case he should wake. Sirius had practically moved into the room; he slept in the couch next to Harry's bed, ate in the chair beside Harry, and when his legs got cramped he paced the floor in front of the bed. He only left the room to bathe (after making sure Remus was with Harry) or on full moon nights to accompany Moony (Molly would floo over to watch him, but sometimes Albus would volunteer).

And this routine went on for the next long months.

Sirius and Remus spent Halloween sitting in Harry's room with a stash of Firewhiskey for company. Sirius didn't really expect him to wake on Halloween; everything bad had always happened on Halloween, not the other way round.

Remus decided to stay the night and went to get some of his things from his cottage. Sirius, waiting for Remus, moved over to sit on Harry's bed. He sighed heavily.

"Halloween used to be a great time for James and I," he said, smiling wistfully. "The parties we crashed! Happy days……"

He gently brushed the bangs out of Harry's face. His scars from the glass cuts covering his face were horrific; the famous lightning-bolt scar was barely discernible.

Examining his godson by the dim light of the pumpkin's glow, it struck him how much Harry really, really looked like James. Sure, he'd always known they were alike, but the extent of it seemed to sink in extra deeply at that moment. The trademark Potter messy black hair. James' nose. James's mouth. James' lean wiry figure. He'd also had a growth spurt over the holidays and was nearly the same height as James when Sirius had last seen him. Sirius swore they even breathed in the same rhythm (after sharing a dorm with James for seven years, he ought to know). Lying there with his eyes – the only giveaway that he wasn't James – closed, for a moment Sirius could almost believe he was James. A sense of déjà vu hit Sirius as he remembered sitting, twenty years ago, in this exact position by the bed of an unconscious James Potter after he'd taken a Bludger to the head. James had seen the Bludger heading for the Gryffindor seeker, who'd been streaking after the snitch with the Slytherin seeker close behind. With Gryffindor only sixty points in the lead, Slytherin was most obviously _not _allowed to catch the snitch, so James had done the only thing that made sense to do (well, to him, that is) at the time – he threw himself in the Bludger's path, clearing the way for Gryffindor to the snitch and a 70:280 victory. And despite the many people telling him otherwise, his actions still made perfect sense to him when he regained consciousness – a _week_ later.

Sirius had agreed with him – still did.

James had gotten better; he was bouncing back to full form in no time at all. "It takes much more to bring down a Potter," as he'd said. Harry was a Potter through and through; he'd survived against all odds time and time again. And a few injuries would never be enough to bring him down.

**A/N: Actually I have the next 4 chapters all written and ready to be posted….. except I have a problem. A BIG problem. I don't have time to type it out!!!! My mum is kinda strict on my computer time…… I SHOULD be able to do a chapter a week, though….. if I don't get it out on time, I apologize first! **

**P.S. Oh yeah, review!!!! : ) Please……..**


	6. Headaches

**Attention. Rewrite planned for this story starting from this chapter onwards. Don't like what I had written and forgot the original plan anyway.**

It was Halloween. No, that was yesterday. That was yesterday, wasn't it? Made sense. He smelled like sweat and firewhiskey and he had a heck of a hangover. Must've been Halloween. He didn't get drunk easily. Only on Halloween. Because then he'd be intentionally looking to drown himself in his sorrows and wallow in self pity like the pathetic wimp he only aloowed himself to be on Halloween. Well, more of a pathetic wimp than usual, he supposed. He didn't do anyhitng much else but mope beside Harry's bed these days.

Coming to think of it, where was he? He wasn't in Harry's room, that was for certain, because he was lying in a bed and there was only one bed in Harry's room. That bed was occupied by Harry. And, sober or not, Sirius was confident he would never have dumped his sick godson out of bed to comandeer it for himself. He was also quite sure that he would not have squashed his godson by getting into the same bed. Which, of course, led to the conclusion that he was in a different bed, and hence, different room from his godson.

All this logical thinking was giving him a killer headache. Reasoning through a hangover had to be one of the most excruciating things he'd ever done.

The door opened. He felt, rather than saw, someone sitting down next to the bed. Judging by the tut-tutting sounds the someone was making, it didn't take a sober genius to guess it was Poppy, who'd never approved of alcohol.

"Remus Flooed me to say he would be coming to Hogwarts for his transformation this evening. Didn't think you'd appreciate his howling tonight after the astounding amount of drink you've put away, or so he said. I really don't want to know. "

Sirius just groaned.

"No, I'm not giving you a hangover potion. If you must drink, you can jolly well bear the consequences yourself. Maybe you'll think twice next time before you binge."

Sirius flopped despondently to a side and moaned again.

"Knowing you as I do I can hazard a guess as to how much you've had. You'd best stay in bed for the rest of the day. Tomorrow, too, I'd suggest, since I have it on good authority you haven't been resting nearly as well as you should for months."

Sirius managed a feeble grumble of what may have been meant to be protest.

"Oh ,I really don't know why I bother reasoning with you. Just take this."

Sirius stared blearily at the foul smelling conoction he was offered.

"Drink up, go on. It's not a hangover cure, but you'll wake up feeling much better and rested."

Too befuddled to bother to argue further, Sirius accepted the Sleeping Draught and downed it in one go. Poppy puttered around a little longer, then she too, left to resume her duties in Hogwarts' Hospital Wing.

* * *

Awareness seeped in gradually. At first it was the scratchy quality of the sheets against his skin. Then it was the soft mattress – surprisingly so, but pleasant beneath his poor sore back. Then the stiffness in his joints, the awkward feeling one gets when one has been in the same position for too long. Some fluffy material under his head that felt so reminiscent of a pillow – Merlin, how long had it been since he'd last thought of pillows! Tightness of the numerous bandage wraps around various body parts. And, most glaringly of all, a disconcerting lack of pain. Pain having been a very dependable, if unwelcome, constant in his life since before he cared to remember, the sudden lack of it had the rather unexpected effect of throwing him off balance. Really? No pain? It was almost too much to comprehend.

There was a dim glow behind his eyelids. Wary of the last time they'd appeared, he cracked open only one eyelid, slowly. Just a slit. Encouraged by the absence of an urge to faint, he cracked open the other one. A little wider. Then –

"Arrgh!"

He slammed them shut again. Pain. Stabbing through his skull like pitchforks of sunlight. He was on familiar territory once more. He lifted an arm to shield his eyes from the light. It felt heavy as lead and resisted movement, but after a few token spasms of protest it consented to rise. Under the protection of its shadow he repeated his eyelid experiment. The results proved slightly better. He managed to snatch a glance at his surrounding before the pitchforks attacked. White sheets, white bandages, peeling wallpaper and an open window, through which offending sunlight was streaming in unimpeded by the pulled-back brocade curtains. Of course, the white sheets, being of shiny, silky and reflective quality, didn't help. With equal difficulty to his first attempt he lifted his other arm, and pulled the woolly material of his heavy blanket across his eyes. The experiment was repeated, yielding not much better results than the second. He gave up and slumped deeper into his pillows. After all, why go looking for pain at the first available pain-free moment? Just enjoy the pillows.

At least, that was what he told himself. The pillows were soft and downy, exactly the kind he'd always dreamed of. He buried his head in the fluffy object. It sank slowly beneath the weight with just the right amount of resistance. Not flattened, though – low-grade feather pillows had this bothersome tendency of flattening themselves whenever you laid on them, which rather defeated the purpose of a pillow. A pillow was meant to support your head, so that you were comfortable. Like this one. It was performing its duties admirably. In fact, it was performing its duties so well it was starting to get annoying. Irritatingly perfect pillow. It should've had a few flaws thrown in to make it less boring. It couldn't do a very good job of holding his attention if it was boring. He needed something else to think about. Something suitably distracting. Maybe he should focus on the blankets instead. Yes, the blankets. They were far from perfect. They were white, for one, which aggravated his eyes and made it impossible for him to –

Argh, hang it, he wanted to _see_!

Get rid of the window. That was his new mission in life.

With renewed determination he screwed up his eyes and squinted against the light, holding out until it got too unbearable then squeezing them shut again. Several repeats of this procedure gave him a blinding headache and a rough idea of his bearings. Bed by the wall. Drawer on the right. Carpet. Then window. Get out of bed, don't hit drawer, don't trip over carpet and shut the window. He took a moment to picture his surroundings clearly in his mind's eye and went through the game plan. Then he lunged for the window.

At least, he attempted to lunge for the window. He would have succeeded, but the muscles in his legs, unused to being used, locked up and refused to cooperate. Thus his momentum only managed to carry his upper body as far as the drawer before he realized the rest of him would not be following suit. He crashed into the drawer. Frowning at the offending appendages he rammed commands down his neural pathways. With creaks and groans and much glaring (which, if he cared to be logical, was completely unproductive and pointlessly painful), they twitched feebly. Barely enough to shake off his blankets. He doubled his efforts, including the glare. Finally, slowly, and unsteadily, his legs moved themselves over to the side of the bed.

At this inopportune moment, his precarious half-perch on the drawers gave way and he tumbled over onto the carpet. Which, incidentally, happened to be lying in a pool of sunlight below the window. Something clattered to the floor from the drawer and hit his head. As if he needed more abuse on top of the terrible things the light was already doing to his head. He turned his head this way and that, trying to ease the pain, and finally succeeded in adopting a face-down position on the floor with the sunlight on his back. Whatever it was that had rolled off the drawers had by now attached itself to his head and was firmly entrenched in his tangled hair.

Painfully he crawled to his feet. Get rid of the window. Get rid of the window and all his problems would go away. Get rid of the light and his throbbing would ease and maybe he'd finally be able to think coherently.

Almost drunkenly he stood up, swaying, with eyes screwed tightly shut. He turned shakily in a circle. When the glare behind his eyelids was at a maximum he judged it to be the direction of the window. Get the window!

He directed his feet to stagger towards the window. His unsteady feet rebelled even as he forced them toward the very source of his pain. This made for very slow progress. It also made for rapidly mounting frustration. His patience reached its limit. With aggressive aggravation he gathered his will and launched himself at the window in a flying leap. To his surprise, it worked.

A little too well, in fact. This he realized when he found himself flying out of the window.


	7. A Staring Problem

**New version of Chapter 7. Enjoy and review. It's slightly longer than my usual chapters. Hopefully this will keep up.**

**Disclaimer: If you still don't know who owns Harry Potter by now I would recommend you to move out from under your rock.**

He experienced briefly the joy of flight before gravity took hold and plunged him into a bush. It flattened like a low-grade feather pillow. Fortunate for him, less so for the bush. The impact from his admittedly not-so-high fall was effectively all but absorbed by the sad little plant. He, however, was still in far too much agony to be grateful. His head had landed on top of the unwelcome object in his hair and it was digging into him, tugging at the roots of his hair and generally adding to his cranial misery. Savagely he wrenched it out, sending thunderbolts jarring across his brain. The shape of the object was extremely familliar and sat so naturally in his hand that without thinking he put it on.

Immediately the world was darkened to an acceptable level. The faint echoes of thrumming receded to the back of his head and freed up enough brain capacity for thinking processes to occur once again. The birds broke into song and the world was a absolutely lovely place once more.

His wonderful, self-adjusting, all-prescriptions glasses. What on earth would he do without them? He smiled and patted the glasses on his nose. Though it really would have been more pleasant if it hadn't took a fall out of a ridiculously large window for the dratted things to make themselves known. He patted his glasses again. He knew they wouldn't have minded the 'dratted things' slur; they would recognise the fond context in which it was used, he was sure.

Padfoot did always say he was a little touched in the head. Padfoot was one to talk. He always insisted proper medical attention be given to his rubber bone after he'd gnawed on it. With bandages and a specialised first-aid kit. It was only to be expected, after all his entire family were touched in the head. Come to think of it, ask any Muggle on the street and they'd tell you the entire wizarding world, in a nutshell, was a world of nutters.

Speaking of the Blacks, the courtyard he found himself in looked suspiciously like a rotted version of theirs. There was the same hideous statue of some Black ancestor glaring down his nose at him, the imposing factor considerably lessened due to the unfortunate absence of a nose to glare down from. Fat green stems sprouted out of his fine stone hat and cascaded down to his shoulders like a tangled mat of living green hair, giving him a very unkempt appearance indeed. Very unbecoming for the Noble House of Black. Inspecting the statue closely, he impulsively reached out and tugged away a few strands, snapped some others and ruffled up the rest of the plant. It wasn't difficult to twist the vines into the distinctive shape he had in mind. The statue kept on glaring down the hole in its face in futile fury. Finally he stopped to inspect his handiwork. There, now - much better.

A likeness of the Weird Sisters' lead singer in the place of honour in the Blacks' garden. Padfoot would be thrilled.

The stone pathway was cracked and overgrown with weeds. Shrubs grew how and where they pleased with absolutely no regard for the low decorative fences, their authority over the vegetation long since crumbled along with their rusted iron bodies. It was entirely plausible that Padfoot had obtained his disdain of authority from the family plant life. Both were ever eager to test their boundaries. Once free of the shackling enchantments, some of the shrubs even went as far to disregard the laws of nature altogether and grew horizontally out of the decrepit stone walls of the house itself.

Then common sense caught up with him and he realised that of course he wasn't in the Blacks' courtyard, for many obvious reasons. Firstly, the Blacks had strong protective enchantments around their charming establishment that would've blasted him to bits by now. Secondly, there ought to be enough gardening charms in the garden that could take at least eight years to unravel, designed to keep the garden in pristine condition. Thirdly, there was no shrieking Walburga Black assaulting his eardrums by expressing exactly what she thought of living in the mouldy old ruin the property looked like. And lastly, the all-important fact that he himself wouldn't be caught dead in the place any more than ol' Padfoot would. That begged the question: Where was he?

Nothing like a little exploration to find out. He forced his sore body into gear, feeling more battered and bruised with each step. He may have convinced himself logically that this wasn't Black territory, but his body was navigating the area as if receiving directions from a ghostly memory instead of his brain. The pseudo-familiarity was giving him the creeps. A short tour of the garden found his muscles groaning pathetically. Not just due to the exercise, but also in anticipation of _more_ strenuous exercise, as he'd discovered the only way out was over the wall. But hey, if he was wiling to work through the faint twangs of pain just to do a little hairstyling work on a statue, of course he was up to climbing a wall if it meant finding a way out of this creepy place.

The stone was rough and covered in moss, falling away in places but still mostly solid. Again he was unnerved as his hands and feet found the grooves and holds in the wall easily and almost unconsciously, even if they did creak and moan in the process. After an age of burning limbs and bone-ache, he pushed himself over the wall and slid like a sack of potatoes down the other side.

As soon as he landed with a thump on his behind the entire house vanished. He wasn't given a chance to catch his breath before the wall he was leaning on disappeared as well, sending his head onto the sidewalk with his third - or was it fourth? - thump that day. He grit his teeth in pain. It was too late to regret leaving the pillow behind. How many more knocks was his head destined to take today? He knew the Potter skull was thick, really, but they were still extremely sensitive to pain like everyone else's. He clenched his eyes until he reckoned he could sit up without sending his brain on a merry-go-round, then slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. His hands brushed fabric, and when he picked it up he saw it was a wide brimmed baseball cap. He jammed it over his head. With the way things were going for his much-abused cranium he would take any protection he could get. Fate owed him an apology anyway.

Sounds of footsteps on gravel alerted him to the fact that he wasn't alone. He raised his eyes to see a muggle woman dragging her daughter away from something in his general vicinity, her face scrunched up with a curious mix of fear and disgust.

Huh? What was she looking at?

He looked confusedly behind him before realizing that the wariness was aimed at him. He swelled up in indignation. Really, there was absolutely no need for that kind of appalling behaviour! It was completely uncalled for. He would have to show her the error of her ways. Reaching up to run his hand through his hair in the most attractive manner, he was thrown for a loop when his fingers came up unexpectedly against a coarse, hairless surface. His expression slipped for a moment, betraying his confusion before he suddenly recalled the cap. A blossoming patch of crimson was firmly forced away. He hurriedly recovered his composure and opted instead to give her a reassuring smile and nod, turning on the hitherto infalliable Potter charm and throwing in a trademark rougish wink. It was a proven formula to melt any Hogwarts' girl within seconds.

It only served to make mother and child back away faster.

What was going on? His smile had never yielded such shocking results!

Belatedly he found that he was wearing a hospital gown. He grimaced. He could imagine how this must've looked like now. The crazy man in a white dress, wearing dark glasses and a cap, touching his head and grinning at strangers.

_Yes, __yes, __I'm __a __loony. __It's __true, __I __swear! __Just __escaped __from __the __asylum. __Isn't __it __great?_

His smile dropped. A couple more pedestrians stopped to stare at the nutter sitting on the curb. He pulled his cap down low and buried his face in his hands.

This was, by far and large, _not _his lucky day.

* * *

It was about to get unluckier. A purple bus appeared with a bang out of nowhere and caused his terribly sore body to scuttle backwards in alarm. He winced at the abrupt way his protesting joints had been forced into action, doubling the spasms that wrecked his system. All the same, he hadn't just about crawled over a wall in agony only to die run over by a bus, no matter how embarassed he was.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard ..."

Unbelievable. Everyone had stopped staring. Downright absurd, that's what it was. How dare they! Just a minute ago the lot of them had been all too glad to gawk at the poor man on the street like he was some sort of lunatic. Give them something stare-worthy to gape at, say, the _huge, __brilliantly __purple _bus that had just _appeared __out __of __thin __air_, and what did they do? They stopped staring! They _stopped_! It was more than ludicrous. Beyond preposterous. It was a travesty of justice, it was!

A young freckled boy was looking at him expectantly. He frowned at the boy, opening his mouth to tell him just what he thought of the driver's deplorable driving skills. He was overcome by a fit of hacking coughs.

"'Ere now, sir, choo all righ'? Wha'choo coughin' on the ground for?"

He glared at the boy between coughs. It had little effect. His darkened glasses hid his eyes and Freckles was one of the blissfully obtuse kind. He stared down openly at him from the steps of the bus, making no move to help.

Great, another one. What was it about people staring at him today?

The bus honked impatiently. Freckles seemed to jolt out of his fascination with him and finally offered him a hand. He grasped it, intending to squeeze the life out of the fleshy digits - he was mad enough he'd summon up enough strength somehow! - but as soon as their hands locked he found himself hauled into the vehicle. The door slammed itself shut and the bus threw everything backward. As he hit a bed (what was a bed doing on a bus?) with a not insignificant thump he realised in a befuddled manner that the bus had shot forward.

It was a nightmare of a ride. If he'd been in a better condition he supposed he might have been in a position to enjoy it, but as things stood now, it was all he could do to not cringe every time the bus swerved and ran over bumps at two hundred kilometres per hour, tossing its passengers about like pepper in a shaker.

"Grip the handrails!" advised Freckles. He couldn't because he was clutching his glasses to his face. He had his priorities.

If and when this monstrosity stopped, heads were going to roll.

The bus jerked again and bashed him against a wall. He adjusted his glasses and amended the statement.

Heads were going to roll - if his didn't go first.

* * *

"Diagon Alley! All off for Diagon Alley!"

He almost threw himself off in his eagerness to disembark the death trap. Other like-minded witches and wizards were jostling at the entrance, each fighting to get down first. He resorted to using his elbows. Hang decorum. Survival was paramount.

He managed to get to the door just as Freckles noticed him.

"'Oi, choo goin'? Din' say t'was your stop! Choo paid? Stop! 'Oo not paid!"

He paid Freckles no heed. He hadn't boarded that ... thing ... by choice. He was most certainly _not_going to pay for it. The driver of that atrocity ought to be executed for cruelty. He would form a R.S.P.C.H. to voice his grievances. He was confident his complaint would not be the only one. There was that old man in the corner heaving into a drain, and the distraught mother trying in vain to comfort three traumatised toddlers. The two teens beside her seemed all right, though, and another two were even grinning. As for the rest of the passengers...

They were staring at him.

Again! They were staring again! What? What was this, Stare-at-the-lunatic day? Yes, he was aware he'd referred to himself as a lunatic! No, he didn't care! This was a violation of human rights! Yes, he knew he was talking to himself!

All this staring was starting to make a real lunatic out of him.

He felt a scream was justified. A good, clichéd "ARRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrGgHHh…" that trailed off impressively would quell his frustration nicely. Unfortunately, common sense prevailed and supplied him with a vivid aftermath of such an indulgence, which included even more staring and more screaming from the toddlers, and consequently possibly their mother. It was a scene threatening enough to scare the frustration out of him with immediate effect. It was just as well, as he later recalled coughing badly when he tried to make a sound before boarding the bus. His dry, parched throat didn't take kindly to being used for speech.

He closed his eyes tiredly and leant against the brick wall. Deep breaths. In, out. In, out. The hair at the back of his neck was prickling again, a sure sign that some intense gazes were being directed his way. He screwed his eyes up tighter. Patience. He needed patience to deal with all this staring.

The unsettling feeling of being stared at did not abate. If anything, it only increased. He fought the urge to squirm, flattening himself against the wall, trying to focus on the darkness inside his eyelids and hoping desperately that if only he ignored the problem long enough, it would go away. He didn't open his eyes, but some sixth sense told him the source of his discomfort was near. Very near. Near enough that he could feel humid breath on his face. Fighting his instincts, he sneaked a glance.

He found himself staring cross-eyed down the length of a wand, pointed straight between his eyes. The wielder was a heavyset man, with fierce dark brows and a moustache like a whip, his cold, chilling gaze pinning him to the wall like an insect specimen. The florid face was pressed close to his own as the man leaned forward, the non-wanded hand bracing his weight on the brick and effectively trapping him against the wall. He tried to back away, but his earlier actions had already flattened himself against the wall. His thought processes froze up and he could only watch in horrified fascination as the nose hair in his assailant's nostrils shook and quivered with each breath.

The man held his gaze evenly. Breathing was becoming more difficult. He flinched at the invasion of his personal space, but was powerless to do anything about it. The man took a step back when he saw he had his attention, but made no move to lower the wand. Panic was setting in. He was in no shape to fight. His breath came in short, staccato gulps. He could only stare at the man like a deer caught in the headlights.

The man's lips parted, revealing crooked, yellow teeth. The thin moustache moved up and down as the upper lip moved as the man spoke in a deadly serious voice.

"Do you mind moving out of the way, sir? You're blocking the entrance."

He stared at the man, uncomprehending. The man waved his wand in his face again, nearly taking out an eye.

"I said, sir," repeated the man, slowly and non-threateningly, as if speaking to a spooked animal or a very dumb child, "Would you mind stepping aside? You're blocking the entrance."

The words penetrated the fog of panic surrounding his brain. Numbly, he moved to the left. He stumbled and nearly fell. The man jabbed his wand forward at the space his head had formerly occupied, hitting a brick. A rumbling sound filled the air as the bricks began to move, rearranging themselves. They formed an extremely familiar brick archway.

The man stepped forward, a smile on his face that made him look quite jolly and caused some wonder that he could ever have been thought frightening. Clinging to the man's coat, he now noticed, was a little girl not more than eleven years old, eyes darting everywhere in delight before they landed on him and quickly turned away. The man picked her up and swung her onto his shoulder.

"Well darling, what do you think of Diagon Alley?"

As the father and daughter set off, one skipping and the other amused, he could not help a growl escaping. Merlin, he was an idiot! Of all the stupid things he had done ... ... ... More people were pointing and whispering at him now. Thought he was crazy, no doubt. Despondently, he realized he couldn't really blame them.

For the second time that day, he pulled his cap down low and buried his face in his hands, trying not to think of Padfoot's glee if he were to ever find out about this incident.

* * *

Diagon Alley was different. Not necessarily better or worse, just different. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. The difference wasn't just the obvious ones, like the myriad of new shops in between the old or the rat food stall that had closed down. Changes like that were expected in a busy place of business like Diagon Alley. No, the disparities were deeper than that. Deeper and more subtle. He couldn't quite put a finger on it. It was the atmosphere, the people, the streets, the sounds. The feeling in the very air. Something was off. It was not unlike the feeling he'd experienced in the would-be Blacks' garden, but less pronounced. That didn't mean it wasn't there, though. It was always present, nagging at the back of his mind everywhere he looked. He kept seeing things that should be there, but wasn't; that was there, but should not have been. It was confusing, and every time he ventured to ponder too deeply he would quickly give up in face of a headache.

The huge podium in the middle of the Alley was a prime example of something that was there but should really not have been. It was obstructing traffic and causing much uproar. It seemed he wasn't the only one who held the opinion. Many people were surprised to see it and the crowd of people who wanted to gawk at it was growing quickly. A distant part of him noted that it was nice to have people staring at something else for a change.

The front row of people just before the stage were evidently reporters. They brandished Quick Quote Quills and flashed their cameras at the rapidly gathering crowd. They seemed excited. The noise level increased sharply as a small man with a lime green bowler hat mounted the podium and executed a dramatic bow. The frenzy reached an all new level and the man lapped up the attention. He held in a snort. Lime Bowler was either willfully ignorant or woefully thick. The attention given him was in no small part negative.

Lime Bowler seemed to have satisfied himself with the cheers. He raised a hand to indicate silence. No one took the slightest notice. The reporters began busily raining questions down on him, barely waiting for an answer before their Quick Quote Quills were already busy. Lime Bowler cleared his throat with a Sonorous Charm. Multiple times. All to no avail. The flustered man resorted to yelling. One of his entourage took pity on him and shot sparks into the crowd, achieving slightly more success than his superior.

He was about to wander away when he saw the boy beside him wink conspiratorially at the girl hanging off his arm. The boy put his wand to his throat and yelled. His voice was deep and impressive and reverberated all around the alley.

"PEACE, HO! CAESAR SPEAKS!"

The utterly nonsensical words had the desired effect. The silence was deafening. Even Lime Bowler was stunned into silence. The man who had been shooting sparks had the presence of mind to quickly warn Lime Bowler to seize his chance.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," began Lime Bowler, with no little amount of self-importance, "thank you for gathering here on such short notice. As I'm sure you all know, today we will witness a very important event, one that will stand as testimony to the impeccability of Ministry justice and one that will no doubt have a profound impact on our world and future history."

Future history? What was the man talking about?

A reporter turned around to snap a picture of the crowd, silent with anticipation. He never saw it coming. He didn't have time to blink. The flash caught him full in face. Pain burst behind his eyes as his glasses failed to respond swift enough to compensate. He fell to the floor with a muffled yell, cursing in agony and missed the last sentence of Lime Bowler's grand opening speech.

"We are here today to witness the very public murder trial of Harry James Potter, the boy who lived."

**Reminder again: This story is undergoing a rewrite. This chapter is rewritten, but the next two chapters are not (as of 11 Dec) and therefore you may not find them continuous.**


	8. Life on the Run

**A/N: This is the new and revised chapter. Safe to read. **

**I do not own Harry Potter and all his cronies, allies and enemies.**

Life on the Run

Harry was lost.

He'd run as fast as he could away from Privet Drive, convinced that any time now, the Aurors would realize Harry Potter was gone and see through his little trick. Then they would come after him and arrest him and he would look all the more guilty for attempting to escape. Adrenaline kept him going for a surprisingly long time, carrying him as far as at least three towns away. Harry had never dreamed that the day would come when he would be grateful for the game of "Harry Hunting". All that practice was now put to excellent use.

He awoke to the sight of a beautiful red sunset with no memory of falling asleep. Then again, he had probably been so tired he fell asleep in mid-run. After all, no normal person, even if he were a wizard, could take running at top speed for 48 hours with no rest. Blinking in the dying sunlight, he noted the staring passers-by and shifted uncomfortably. In all honesty, he looked quite a sight; a bedraggled, unshaven man with a typical television-villian appearance sprawled out by the pavement was not by any means an ordinary sight. In fact, it was down right suspicious. The residents were, by the looks of it, debating whether or not to call the police. Harry hurriedly got to his feet and continued his run from the authorities.

With no map, no specific direction and no destination at all in mind, it was perhaps a foolish thing to do. He had totally lost all sense of where in England he might be; he did not even know if he was heading north, south, east or west, having never really paid much attention to astronomy. He tried looking for Polaris, the North Star several times (he did remember that much) but could never be certain if it was the right star he was looking at, so in the end gave it up as a bad job. It also did not help that he was avoiding towns as much as possible, only slipping into small villages he passed to nick food and supplies. In order to travel more quickly, he often hitched rides, mostly unnoticed, on the backs of trucks and lorries. This was a very favourable arrangement because besides travelling at speeds far exceeding his usual pace, there was more often than not food and drink available - if you knew how to time it right. He was quickly becoming adept at slipping on and off vehicles within the precious few seconds available to him at a traffic stop, junction or petrol station. And of course, pilfering supplies from said vehicle. Hey, it wasn't exactly as if he was a petty thief - he only stole out of necessity!

All this rule-breaking he was forced by circumstances to get up to (forced implying that he had no choice in the matter, and therefore completely innocent) reminded him, on more than one occasion, of Fred and George, and in turn the Weasleys, Hermione, Sirius, and the rest of the Hogwarts population. He wondered if they were worried about him. He wondered how many of his schoolmates would believe him. He wondered if he should, perhaps, write to Dumbledore if Hedwig found him. He had instructed her to stay with Ron for the holidays so the Dursleys wouldn't lock her up, and he wasn't sure whether he regretted it or was glad of it. The Weasleys would take excellent care of her, that was for sure, but he missed her company.

An abandoned old copy of the Daily Prophet, dated a fortnight ago, soon quashed any notion of contact with Dumbledore. Fudge had accused Dumbledore of harbouring a criminal, and although he was compelled to retract his words due to lack of proof (one could accuse him of slander otherwise), it was plain that he was still convinced that the old Headmaster had spirited his precious Golden Boy off somewhere to hide, and therefore was putting Dumbledore under a constant guard. Dumbledore had denied any involvement, of course, but the article was highly skeptical. It even ended with the line, "Once enough evidence comes to light, the Minister has hinted that he may be able to prove Dumbledore's guilt as an accomplice to the Boy-Who-Murdered. The Ministry will leave no stone unturned to avenge Cedric Diggory's untimely death."

So he was the Boy-Who-Murdered now, was he? What did that make Voldemort, the Monster-Who-Massacred-Millions-Destined-to-be-Defeated-by-the-Boy-Who-Murdered?

He really couldn't afford to drag anyone else into this. If the Minister caught so much as a whiff of flimsy evidence against Dumbledore the Headmaster would be thrown into Azkaban before anyone could blink, and where would that leave the rest of the wizarding world? Writing to his friends was also out of the question. If even Dumbledore could be threatened, no one was untouchable, especially not the Weasleys. Best not to create trouble for anyone. They had done so much for him already. He would be fine on his own.

* * *

Two weeks later...

He rubbed his eyes. He rubbed his ears. He stared wide-eyed at the bearded man with the jaunty cap looking expectantly at him.

"Twenty pounds? A day?" He asked the man disbelievingly.

The man nodded in a give-me-patience kind of way. "Yes, plus lunch. Breakfast, tea, dinner and accomodation you're on your own."

"All I have to do is walk past the camera a few times and grunt when necessary?"

"And we give you twenty pounds, yes. Though I warn you in advance : acting's not as simple as you're making it out to be."

"Twenty pounds is twenty pounds. Do you know how _much_ I can get with twenty pounds?"

"We're filming in the middle of a country club golf course. The scenes your character is involved in is scheduled to take two to three weeks to complete. I repeat: it's a posh place. Twenty pounds is a reasonable amount, but don't expect it to go too far."

"And all I have to do is - "

Director Elkins was beginning to regret offering the role to this young man. He was obviously a few clowns short of a circus. But then again, the thuggish minion he needed to play wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed either, and his appearance was exactly how the character had looked like in his imagination.

"All you need to do is to follow some fairly simple directions," interrupted the director, cutting across Harry. He sounded slightly miffed. Probably thought Harry wasn't showing enough respect to the sacred profession of acting. "Are you interested or not?"

Harry deliberated. True, he was on the run, but only from the wizarding authorities, and he didn't look a thing like the Harry Potter everyone knew and loved. Besides, he hadn't had a good meal in days.

"When do I start?"

"You accept, then?"

Harry rolled his eyes. And here the director thought he was dumb. The necessary handshakes exchanged, the director handed Harry his name card, bearing the name Wilson Elkins. Harry took careful note of the direction Elkins headed off in. If his plan went smoothly, Elkins was going to be his transport to the filming venue. Not that Elkins would know anything about it.

He shadowed Elkins all the way back to a huge Victorian-era farmhouse. A fairly remarkable feat, if he did say so himself, seeing as the place was secluded from civilisation and therefore offered him no plausible excuse should he be caught. Truckloads of cameras and equipment were parked around the place, trailers and cabins set up around the compound. It was a hive of activity. From the snippets of conversation he could overhear, they were busy packing up and planned to be ready to start filming at the new location in three days' time. The first few truckloads of equipment were being moved out first thing at dawn on the next day.

Aha. Harry sized up the vehicles indicated. People were running around piling all manner of things into them, but surely they would be left alone once night fell. And well, if they weren't - Harry wasn't half bad at improvisation.

Twelve hours later found Harry cramped in between two overflowing boxes of sophisticated equipment and squatting on the gears of an unidentifiable black object. It was an extremely tight fit.

_Remind me again why I ever thought this was a good idea?_

Once again the truck jerked and Harry felt an assortment of objects, metal, plastic and glass, jabbing into his sides. A small bubble-wrapped object had managed to get itself dislodged and was acting as a pivot for the camera stand's movement up and down, right above his head, every downward movement of the long metal arm giving his head a good whack from behind. The pointy corners of some mysterious contraption dug into his back. On his right were an enormous bunch of prickly copper wires brushing lightly across his skin in a most itch-inducing manner. And worst of all, a lock of fake blonde hair dangling in between his eyes and tickling his nose constantly.

Must not sneeze... must not curse... must not shove, throw or break anything...

...must not sneeze...

It was an effective exercise in self-control. All two hours, three minutes, and twenty-five seconds of it.

The truck shuddered to a halt. The camera stand gave his head one last thwack and lay still. Rubbing the back of his head with one hand, (the other was cramped in a position that made movement of any sort impossible) he listened intently for the driver. Receding footsteps indicated his departure. Harry released a small groan and fumbled with something under a folded sheet of coarse material. The back of the truck opened, allowing him to tumble out. He made sure to give his inanimate travel companions a last death glare before slamming the truck doors shut. Softly, of course.

He wondered if he could bill the production company for bruise cream. Probably not. They would no doubt bill him for travelling expenses instead. Lawyers were vicious that way.

The truck had been stopped in what was apparently a car park. It was one of the first to arrive. Harry crept till he was a few vehicles away from the area reserved for the production crew, then pretended to walk nonchalantly away to the sprawling Tudor-style mansion that seemed to be the main building of this "posh country club", as Elkins had put it. No time like present to begin scouting.

The discovery of the kitchen, he decided, or rather, the discovery of unrestricted access to it, should be of prime importance. A good, comfortable, undisturbed spot to sleep in would be appreciated, too. He would prefer somewhere soft, but his fourteen-year-plus experience of life had taught him not to be picky. There was a golf course, though. Elkins had mentioned filming on one. The grass ought to be soft enough.

* * *

Filming, as it turned out, was not very difficult. At least not for Harry's part, which was a Crabbesque or Goylesque role which, true to his prediction, only involved agreeing with whatever "the boss" said, "standing guard" outside secret "evil conferences", and carrying anything "the boss" pointed at (which could also include carrying violently struggling, protesting and not to mention_ heavy_, spies out of the headquarters of evil). However, three days into shooting, Harry realised there was something in the job description that the conniving director had conviniently forgot to tell him.

"I have to _what_?"

"Faint and fall when the protagonist hits you over the head with a golf club."

"I got the fainting part. What do you mean, 'hits me over the head with a golf club?'"

"You read the script - "

"No I haven't."

"You mean to say you've been here three days and you haven't even looked at your lines?"

"I don't have lines - I grunt."

"Right. Anyway, this is the part where the protagonist outwits security to sneak up on the antagonist, decapacitating you in the process. Therefore, you understand the need to look properly decapacitated."

"I get it. Grunt and keel over. What I don't get is, why must I get clubbed over the head with a potentially lethal weapon?"

The director took a deep breath to calm himself. "Don't be silly, of course it's not a real golf club - the graphite head is actually painted styrofoam."

"It hurts!"

"It's styrofoam!"

"I don't care, it still hurts! Can't you ask her to, er, not actually make contact with my head?"

The director ignored him. "Into position! Ready?"

Harry shot him a reproachful look. The director repeated the question, glaring at him.

"_Ready_?"

Sullenly, he moved back into position. His head was still tender from that last whack. The protagonist may have been a seven-year-old girl, but she sure could make some mean shots where his head was involved.

The girl, named Gabbie for as far as the movie was concerned, tiptoed forward, peering left and right with all due fanfare and overreacting horribly to every shadow on the set. He would have to be an idiot not to see her. Which, for the intent and purpose of this movie, he was. He pictured Goyle's blank expression and pasted it on his face, staring determinedly in every which direction except the one that mattered. There was a cluttering sound as Gabbie none-too-stealthily nicked a golf club from the bag. He hoped to heaven she'd taken the right one.

Her footsteps got nearer. He began counting down silently. Ten ... nine ... eight ... seven...

She was behind him. The count was down to five.

She raised the golf club.

He crumpled to the floor.

"CUT!" Director Elkins' irate voice rang across the greens. "You were supposed to faint _after_ she hit you, not _before_!"

Harry maintained his clueless Goyle expression. "I saved her the trouble."

Elkins lost the last of his patience.

"Look here, young man. Every minute here costs money, and the longer this takes, the more the cost soars. If the cost exceeds the budget, I'm going to hold you responsible. We're talking tens of thousands of pounds." He marched up to Harry and glared down at him. "_You understand me?_"

You couldn't argue with money, really. Sighing, Harry resigned himself to sacrifice his brain cells for the greater good of the film industry. Who knew? Maybe by the time the week was out he'd actually be brain-dead enough to save him the trouble of acting.

* * *

At long last the filming was over. He'd pocketed approximately three hundred pounds, but had been given no choice but to spend nearly a hundred on food, drink and basic necessities. The director hadn't been kidding when he said that things didn't come cheap in this upscale place. The entrance fee to the ridiculously lavish restroom was two pounds per minute, inclusive of personal attendant and the usage of two lavender scented Turkish towels. As he said, ridiculous. He didn't even know what to do with a personal assistant in a toilet. He would've done his business in a drain if he could, but there didn't seem to be any around. The greens were patrolled by enough guard dogs that he didn't want to risk a tree.

At least one good thing had come out of his reluctant ventures into the main clubhouse. He'd chanced upon a one of the many corpulent millionaires who frequented the place, and had the honour of helping him recover the lucky golf ball his ex-financee had given him the night of their first kiss. The man was so thankful he'd cried fat tears of gratitude, and proceeded to recommend the club to hire him as caddie. Never mind the fact that Uncle Vernon's Japanese golfer joke was the limit of his golf knowledge.

So by this incredible stroke of luck he wasn't out of a job.

That wasn't to say that his job was a bed of roses. In fact, the manager would clearly have flat-out refused him if the millionaire hadn't been one of the club's more influential guests. Instead, he hid his disgust until said esteemed guest had waddled out of the room, then stated in no uncertain terms that Harry would be given a uniform and nothing else, and he needn't expect to be paid more than a pittance because his other colleagues were professionally-trained, and they wouldn't want any dissatisfaction, would they?

Still, Harry didn't mind. This place was crawling with filthy rich customers. The tips alone made any snide treatment he had to endure more than worth it. They came in three digits, mininum.

Harry's patron millionaire dropped by often. He always asked for Harry every time he went golfing, and he always did so in variations of this manner:

"I'm hitting the greens this afternoon at three. Prepare my lucky golf cart with Lucky on it."

Lucky, of course, meaning Harry. Harry felt like Jimmy's famous circus dog. However, as the saying went, beggars can't be choosers, so if he was paid good money to play fetch, play fetch he would.

It was another blustery autumn day on the course. Harry had high hopes for the day, for reliable sources had informed him behind his back (that is, his jealous colleagues had whispered amongst themselves furiously but not softly enough) that Mr. Millionaire had hit a jackpot the previous evening. Indeed Harry had noticed the wider-than-usual beaming smile and the smugness in tone as he challenged his comrade with stakes that were rather high, even for a millionaire. The game got off to an excellent start, with Mr. Millionaire leading by three shots. His adversary's expression soured more and more as his own grin stretched bigger and bigger.

Then the wind abruptly changed course, and it all went rapidly downhill from there. Mr. Millionaire bogeyed the next five holes. His competitor fired off two consecutive birdies. Mr. Miliionaire's face went from sunny to stormy, and Harry greatly dreaded the effect this development would have on Mr. Millionaire's charitable feelings. If the gap got any wider, Harry might have to begin fearing for his health. A one-billion-euro seaside-villa-on-a-private-island was at stake. He was vividly reminded of the news article he remembered reading of an unfortunate caddie who was clubbed to death by an angry golfer.

Much to the relief of both golfer and caddie, Mr. Millionaire's rival botched up his next few holes. The score evened out.

It was down to the last round now. Never before had Harry been as deeply invested in the outcome as his employer. The anticipation was so thick Gryffindor's sword couldn't have made a dent.

Mr. Millionaire raised his club. He swung. The ball leapt into the air.

It landed some 50 yards away from the hole. Harry wasn't experienced enough to tell whether that was a good distance or not, but even he could see that the ball was rolling in the entirely wrong direction.

Desperately he glared hard at the ball. Willing it to change direction. Somehow. Just a little. 360 degrees.

_Come on, ball..._

The director's words from weeks ago came back to him, for some reason. He directed them at the ball.

_... I'm going to hold you responsible. We're talking tens of thousands of pounds. _

_You understand me? _

Suddenly, inexplicably, the ball made an about turn and began trundling merrily in the direction of the hole. Completely unnatural behaviour for a ball.

Harry's heart leapt into his throat.

_In! In! In! There's a good boy... I mean ball..._

The ball plonked itself into the hole.

Neither jubliant nor anguished yells followed. These only came five minutes anon after everyone remembered that functional jaws were required for yelling.

More yelling ensued hours later when the other caddies learnt Harry had collected a thousand pounds in tips that day.

* * *

Harry revelled in this new-found ability of his to manipulate balls. After all, happy customers made for happy pockets. By now many golf enthusiasts had noticed, consciously or not, that their performance had a habit of improving dramatically whenever Lucky was around, and hence, demand for Lucky was at an all-time high. It came to a point where Lucky's services had to be requested five days in advance. Mr. Millionaire, though, claimed exclusive rights whenever he was around, and seeing as the man's influence was the only thing keeping him away from the sack, he had no problems with it whatsoever. He held no illusion that his fellow caddies would be sad to see him go. They all had a severe jealousy problem. Seriously. These grown men were worse than a teenage Ron.

Ironically, his soaring popularity was becoming a grievious threat to his career.

Take today, for example. Harry had been made the object of a heated tug-of-war between Mr. Millionaire and an equally rich head of a law firm whose wife happened to be in possession of the establishment. Mr. Millionaire, having not learnt from numerous near misses, had once again put his beloved seaside villa at stake and wanted Lucky by his side to ensure his continued possession of it. The lawyer was having none of it. He had heard marvelous things about this Lucky and wanted to see his miracles for himself. And in case Mr. Millionaire had failed to notice, his wife owned the course and everything in it.

"Including Lucky" was not mentioned, but implied. Harry bristled. _Hello, Lucky is right here!_

As if they had heard him, they suddenly rounded on him, grim determination etched on every feature. Alarm bells clanged. Involuntarily Harry took a step back. The steely resolve apparent in their eyes as they advanced on him was scaring him, to say the least. One grabbed his left arm while the other snatched his right. Harry's misgivings reached a whole new level.

_They're not going to actually, physically pull me apart, are they? ...Surely not? _

"Heh heh..." he smiled weakly. "Come now, gentlemen... I'm sure we can come to some sort of ..er, mutually beneficial agreement..."

Twin gazes, one blue and one grey, but both blazing with equal ferocity. He'd never imagined that these old wealthy types took their golf so seriously. Or that they could be so creepy.

It was too much for him to take.

With a muttered excuse (or apology, he couldn't remember what he'd said) Harry turned tail and fled.

* * *

Looking back on that rash decision, Harry concurred that it had been a very stupid thing to do. The only thing he could offer in his defense was that the pressure had affected his judgement. It wouldn't be of any use, though. No amount of excuses could change the fact that he had gravely offended two of the most powerful patrons of the club, and he was, as of this evening, out of a job.

As he turned in his uniform and signed out for the last time, he was handed a white envelope. A bill. Accomodation charges for the two months he'd spent sleeping on the golf course. Two thousand and fifty pounds, tax excluded. Words failed to express his incredulity.

_What? How is this even fair? I was sleeping on the grass! The grass!_

Harry's heart broke as the majority of two month's savings passed over the counter.

Vicious things, lawyers. Took it very badly when things didn't go their way. He would have to remember that next time.

In a huff Harry stomped off to the car park. Sodding lawyer wouldn't be able to charge him for sleeping in a removal van that didn't belong to his company.

**Woah! 4000+ words! I'm improving!**


	9. Stars

**A/N: New and rewritten. Safe for consumption.**

**I own neither Harry Potter nor his cronies, alllies and enemies.**

_Blast._ The van was _moving._ The bloody van was moving! With him on it! He hadn't meant to fall asleep! Okay, so he'd meant to spend the night – but not the _whole_ night - oh, fabulous. This was a removal van - an empty one at that. No food, no drink and worst of all no place to him and the driver. Speeding along the blasted highway at 120 kilometres per hour. Bloody fantastic.

Weeks of being on the run hadn't improved his language one bit.

With nothing better to do he occupied himself with picking out the best spot for him to be out of the driver's sight, then curling up in it to plan his getaway when the van stopped.

He was planning for his 54th possible scenario when he felt the engine shudder to a stop. He couldn't believe his luck; scenario #1, aka worst case scenario happened - driver gets down almost immediately and throws open door before he has time to react. Driver sees him and starts to bellow. Throw in the fact that driver is a big beefy man of Uncle Vernon proportions.

Harry, of course, had planned for this eventuality; it was, after all, scenario #1. And he now proceeded to put his plan into action.

RUN!

It was unfortunate that Mr. Driver did not seem to approve of the plan. Harry took off through the vaguely familliar streets with a huffing removal van driver at his heels yelling in between pants. It was, however, fortunate that Mr. Driver was a man of Uncle Vernon proportions. This meant that said man was in no shape for vigorous exercise. It also meant he was panting so hard that not many could decipher what he was yelling.

Though from his expression, it wasn't that hard to guess. The man's colouring had nothing on Vernon yet, but he was getting there.

It was harder than one might think to lose his pursuer in the considerably more crowded streets. Actually, it wouldn't have been a problem in normal circumstances. Harry was undeniably good at ducking and weaving between crowds. Unfortunately (that word seemed to apply to him a lot), this was not normal circumstances. Harry's current body frame was big, bulky and not certainly not suited to running around in a crowd. Instead of weaving in between people he ended up shoving them out of the way. It also did not help matters that he looked like a disheleved, unshaven bad guy out of a movie.

_How __did __I __come __to __this?_ he raised his eyes heavenward in a sudden bout of self pity. It wasn't enough that he was on the run from the authorities. _Nooo,_ now he had to be on the run - literally - from a derranged removal-van driver as well. Uncle Vernon would be doing a jig.

On second thoughts, he would be if he managed not to fall flat on his fat face. Hey, it sounded like a tongue twister! Harry tried it out while turning a corner, earning himself funny looks.

"Falh flab onish fab fais. Falf flab ohnish fad fays. Fall flad on hish fad fais. Fall flat on his fat face! Yes! Fall flat on his fat face!"

His pursuer managed to do just that running round the corner.

Wow. Talk about luck.

Mr. Driver began to pick himself up. Harry shot off once more. Cars swerved, tyres skidded, drivers honked, pedestrians yelled. Not exactly a friendly neighbourhood.

Finally, Harry found what seemed to be the poorer part of the city - in fact it looked like the slums of the city - and lost his pursuer there. Once he was sure that the yelling sounds were gone, he poked his head out of the alleyway he was hiding in. Yep, coast clear.

Now all he needed to do was to find out where in the country he was.

He nearly howled when he _did_ find out - he was in London. _Bloody __wonderful_.

* * *

Harry grumbled as a potential employer turned him away - again - the latest in the line of 26 employers in the past week. Seriously, he could do it! It was just sweeping the floor! And wiping the windows. And carrying goods. Simple jobs he used to do for Aunt Petunia everyday. But no, the flirty young girl with pretty hair could be trusted to do the job better than he. For goodness sake, he wasn't even itrusted to _polish_ wretched _shoes!_ Sure, with an appearance like his, it was hard not to stereotype him as a bad egg, but still! What henious crimes could he _possibly_ commit with _shoe __polish_?

_Get over my looks! I'm really a very nice person inside!_

Londoners these days.

He made another cross on his admittedly short list. With no certified documents, education and experience, it was already going to be hard enough to get a job without adding a downright suspicious appearance to the equation. He'd tried to change it. Once. Or twice. Or every other moment he could spare. Apparently he wasn't really a full metamorphagus and therefore was unable to exert any semblence of conscious control over his powers. That and it only worked in times of extreme duress. Bloody useful, that was.

Resentment bubbled up in him as he watched an extremely attractive brunette saunter up to the counter of the dimly lit Italian restaurant and become a waitress within minutes. It was the same restaurant he'd just been thrown out of after he'd been denied the job.

_Life is so unfair. I mean, I knew it was unfair, but not this unfair! Why is it that pretty girls always get the jobs they want and I'm not even fit to polish shoes? People can't help their appearance, bloody idiots! Just because I look like the evil masterminds on TV doesn't mean I ama criminal... Hell, if I were a bloody criminal I wouldn't make it so bloody obvious! Pretty girls can be criminals too, you know! In fact, pretty girls would make so much better criminals because no one would suspect them, and they'd trust them with any job, just because they're so bloody pretty! If I were to hire criminals myself, I'd pick pretty girls!_

Then...

_Hell, is there any job a pretty girl wouldn't get?_

Being on the run sure did not help one's language. Neither did failed job interviews, for that matter.

The restaurant owner noticed someone glaring at his "VACANCY" advertisement.

"Hey, beautiful," he smiled toothily, making Harry feel distinctly uncomfortable. "Lookin' fer a job?" He looked Harry up and down appraisingly. "I must say that you sure look like you need it. I can loan you a uniform, if you like. Just don't dirty it."

_Gee, __thanks_, thought Harry, _But __why __is __he __looking __at __me __like __that?_ He tried not to squirm. _What's __wrong __with __my __- __BLOODY __HELL._

Staring back at him in the glass of the restaurant doors was a petite brunette who could probably pass for the sister of the restaurant's most recent waitress.

Harry hightailed out of the restaurant before anyone could blink.

In a back alley, a _very_ brunette, very _girly_ Harry was panicking.

_Change me back - change me back - change me back - change me back - change me back -_

To his utmost horror, a blond guy was approaching, and he was _leering._

_Oh Merlin. You have got to be kidding me. Please tell me he's not going to hit on me..._

"Why, good evening, sweetheart. What's a pretty lady like you doing in a dingy old place like this?" He leaned in closer. "It's not a very safe place for little girls, you know."

Oh how he _hated_ being a girl.

"I - I -I have a boyfriend!" he blurted out quickly, trying not to think of the utter _wrongness_ of the sentence. And the high pitch of his voice. "You know, the big, burly, agressive type."

"Yes?" The git seemed amused.

"Yes, and he's... ah... very... possesive of me." Inside, Harry flinched.

"I see." The git made no move to remove himself from Harry's personal space.

_ARRRGH! I SEE? I SEE? If he doesn't remove his ugly mug from my personal space right this moment I'm going to kick his sorry rump into the next bloody century - ARRRGHHHH! How I wish he'd meet a big, burly, aggressive boyfriend who'll show him I SEE - STARS!_

The git in question suddenly stumbled back with a terrified expression on his face. Harry, noticing that he didn't need to look up at him anymore, looked down at himself with sudden hope - _YES!_ He almost forgave the Fates then. He was a _guy_again.

Harry smirked. "Meet the big, burly, aggressive boyfriend."

And he punched him in the face.

* * *

There were two sides to life as a street kid. The up side, and the down side. The upside was that you could meet new friends, widen your social circle, and basically socialize with other street kids. And street kids usually looked out for each other. The downside? There was a kind of social heirachy among them, and you really didn't want to offend the wrong guy.

Guess who he managed to punch the first day he assumed his current appearance.

Bernard Hound, or Bullhound, was right at the top of the pecking order and had earned his place there as one of the most vicious fighters around. Not to mention head of a small group known as the Hounds.

It was like Harry Hunting all over again, only this time with actual hunting _Hounds_.

For once, Harry was thankful for his current appearance. (In reality, he bore a resemblance to the real boyfriend of Lynette, the brunette he'd seen in the Italian restaurant and mimicked her appearnce by accident. But where said boyfriend had reddish-brown hair and brown eyes Harry had light brown hair and hazel eyes.) Sure, he looked younger (seventeen at most) than he would have liked, but his body frame was slighter and more similar to the original body size he was used to. (Well, much taller and more filled out a little, but he'd always wanted to be taller.) This helped greatly in getting away from the hounds that had taken to hounding him day and night. For even though he had plenty of muscle all over his arms and chest the poor boy simply did not know how to use them in a fight. Therefore, he ran. And he ran fast. This got him the name of "Arrow" among the other street kids.

Unfortunately, running did not always work. In Privet Drive, all he had to worry about was Dudley and his none-too-fit gang. A piece of cake. These, however, were not Dudley and his gang of the obese. These were London _hounds_. They got into street fights all the time. And they usually emerged victorious. Most of them could give Harry a run for his money. Harry needed another advantage.

He found this advantage in high places. Nimble and agile, he climbed trees, scaled walls, swung onto balconies and spent much of his time hiding in rafters. People rarely thought to look upwards for him. And he resisted the urge to spit down on them. It was this useful skill that was to become his life-saver.

How it happened was rather unexpected, really. He was settling down for a peaceful nap in a tree when he saw a kid being chased down by none other than the Bullhound himself. The kid was doing pretty well at first; running and leaping and basically running circles around the furious gang leader. A very entertaining sight to behold. However, from his high vantage point up in the tree, Harry noticed three other thugs approaching from different directions - they were going to corner the kid! Harry's annoying hero-complex kicked in again, and when the kid was runnning past his tree he swung down and scooped him up unto his branch. The kid made an _"oof"_ noise before Harry hurriedly shushed him. Then they sat back to enjoy the show of Bullhound and co. running around like headless chickens trying to find their vanished quarry.

Said kid turned out to be the younger brother of the head Wolf, a rival gang of the Hounds. He offered an exchange of skills; he would teach Arrow to fight if Arrow would teach his kid brother how to climb. Harry, or rather Arrow, accepted. Arrow was declared his favourite sparring partner within weeks of training, in which Harry constantly sported black eyes, bruises and sore muscles. By the time the month was out, Arrow and Wolf had teamed up to take down Bullhound and five of his thugs in a two-hour fight that would go down in London street history.

Thus ended the problem of Harry Hunting.

* * *

December 1995

Harry dashed round a corner and skidded to a stop, panting hard. Cautiously, he peered round the corner again. Nope, he hadn't been mistaken; the person he'd accidentally bumped into was none other than Professor Snape. Potions Master Professor Severus Snape, resplendent in all his greasy glory, was hot on his heels, determined to obliviate him of the sight of the unicorn horn, gillyweed and cage of cornish pixies he'd made him drop. Discreetly, of course.

Harry had no intention of letting Snape anywhere near his memories.

Snape caught sight of Harry and advanced again. Harry swore and sprinted across the road. It was a busy, double-lane T-junction which Snape would definitely NOT cross if he valued his life.

Then the traffic lights turned red and Snape strolled unto the road. His hand strayed to his pocket, a spell on his lips. It was a clear shot.

Harry swore some more and leapt into the back of a truck.

The lights turned green. The truck revved foward with an extra passenger. Snape was left to stare bewilderedly up and down the road and fling himself in an extremely undignified manner out of the way of honking cars.

Harry couldn't help but wave goodbye.

After several blissful minutes of savouring Snape's flabbergasted expression, Harry reluctantly turned his mind back to the minor problem at hand - disembarking. Well, compared to the crisis recently averted, it seemed like a minor problem at first. But as the truck sped miles and miles along the highways without signs of stoping, an unsettling feeling began to settle in his stomach. The feeling intensified when they began entering the deserted countryside. To hop off now would be to get himself stranded in the middle of nowhere. Out of the pan into the fire, so to speak.

Harry's limbs were begining to fall asleep, but he didn't dare stretch them out for fear of being seen. He wondered how far they'd travelled. A few hundred miles at least. He'd hitched this ride right after breakfast and it was now late afternoon.

They were now travelling across a wide, snowy moorland. The desolate landscape stretched all around them for miles, with gently sloping hills vaguely visible in the distance. Sometimes he'd catch a glimpse of stone rows, circles, and standing stones.

Harry let out a low whistle. This place was _perfect_ for playing Quidditch.

"Did you hear that, Joe?"

Harry's breath hitched in his throat.

"Hear what, Ern?" the driver, presumably Joe, turned to his companion with a questioning look on his face.

"A whistle."

"I thought it was you?"

"Well, it wasn't." Ern craned his neck to peer suspiciously at the back of the truck.

Harry scrambled back and hit his head it the process.

"What was that!"

A powerful torch illuminated the truck and Harry knew he was doomed.

* * *

Sleeping out in the open, even if it is in a tree, is by no strectch of the imagination comfortable. It is a very bad idea. Especially during winter.

Harry found that out the hard way. And the hard way is putting it mildly.

He nearly froze to death before he remembered that he was a wizard, and therefore capable of performing warming charms.

Then he nearly froze to death again as he tried to make his numb fingers pick up his wand. Finally succeeding in this endeavour, he opened his mouth to find himself barely capable of stuttering the incantation.

So, yes, finding out the hard way was putting it_very_ mildly indeed.

It was a relief to wake up in the morning to find sunlight streaming down onto his face, offering slight reprieve from the cold. Harry drew his threadbare cloak tighter around himself and nimbly slipped down from his perch, landing on his feet despite the slippery ground.

Squinting into the distance, he could make out a company of people strolling on the moor and looking around. He jogged to catch up with them.

"Good morning!" he greeted brightly.

They stared at him. He looked back unsurely.

"Umm, can you tell me where we are? I think I'm lost." He scratched his head sheepishly. A girl giggled.

"Near the east. Probably close by Hawks Tor." A man answered, waving his field glasses about. On closer inspection, the whole lot of them seemed to be equipped with field glasses. Some of them were bundled up in so many layers of clothing (often mismatched) they made for a very queer sight.

"The East? Of England?"

They stared at him some more.

"Wow, you're really lost, are you? This is Bodmin Moor. In Cornwall. You really shouldn't be wandering around here in winter without a cloak."

"If you don't mind me asking, what are you people doing here anyway? With _field__glasses_?" asked Harry curiously. And... wait a minute...

"And _brooms_?"

They exchanged panicked looks. Three of them reached inside their coats.

Comprehension dawned.

"Hold it! Wait a minute - "

"_Oblivate!"_

Harry ducked.

"_Oblivate!__Oblivate!__Oblivate!"_

Swearing, Harry hit the ground rolling. He managed to extract his wand.

"_Expelliarmus!"_

Seven wands came flying towards Harry, who caught them expertly.

Seven jaws dropped.

"You're - you're a wizard?" yelled one. "Why didn't you just _say_ so ?"

"I was _trying_ to, in case you hadn't noticed - is that a _Firebolt_?"

"Yep," said the portly leader, proudly displaying his broom. Harry noticed the rest of them had similar models. "Fastest broom on the market. Cost me a pretty penny, I can tell you. But how were we to compete with all the other teams on Nimbus 2001s?"

"So this is where you come to practice Quidditch?"

"Good heavens no. There are much better places to practice in winter - bitter cold out here. No, my boy, what brings us here is the same reason that brings thousands of wizards flocking here each year - the legend, of the _Golden__Snitch_."

"I'm sorry?"

The man's eyes widened. "You haven't heard of the famous Golden Snitch story? This is unthinkable! What do they teach in History these days?"

"Goblin Rebellions," answered Harry dryly.

"The Golden Snitch of Bodmin Moor," began the man (the members of his party groaned), "is believed to be one of the oldest Snitches still existing today. In fact, it is most probably the last chance for wizardkind to ever see the likes of a Snitch manufactured in the 19th Century, before Quidditch companies began mass-producing them. The craftsmanship is believed to be superb. The size, weight, speed, flight patterns - even the living habits of the original Snidget bird was researched carefully and followed to a tee. You'll never find the likes of them now - tricky little things they were, in the old days. You think the Snitch today is tricky now - hah! They have nothing, I tell you, _nothing_ on 'em old Golden Snitches. And this 'un here, on Bodmin Moor, is reputed to be the trickiest of the lot. Evaded capture for six months in 1884, or so the story goes. Both teams gave up, and it's been living wild ever since, despite the efforts of wizards all over the country for the past decade. But today... Today is the day it's freedom ends. I can feel it in my very bones._Today __we __shall __capture __the __Snitch __of __Bodmin __Moor_!"

He pumped his fist in the air, slightly out of breath. His companions rolled their eyes.

Harry, however, had tuned out halfway through the speech. His eyes were fixed avidly on a spot in the far distance with a rather glazed look.

The portly man frowned.

"Were you even listening?" he grumbled, waving his hand in front of Harry. Harry caught it before it could obstruct his line of vision.

"You were talking about a snitch?"

"Yes." He sounded sulky.

"Not _that_ snitch, by any chance?"

Every single one of them whipped around to follow his line of sight.

"What? Where? I don't see a thing!"

The portly man eyed Harry up and down, sizing him up.

"You think you any good at seeking?"

"Played before. Not too bad, I guess," responded Harry, not taking his eyes off the Snitch.

"Good. Then take my broom."

"What?"

He shoved the broom into Harry's hands. Harry shot off like a bullet.

* * *

The kid was _amazing._ Well and truly _amazing._

Ragmar Dorkins couldn't believe his eyes. The fool was shooting full speed at the base of a _very_ solid, _very_ hard granite rock formation. It was plain madness. He was going to smash his face -

The genius pulled a tight loop around the rock and darted to the right. Ragmar saw the snitch now, a glimmering bit of gold barely visible in the dim winter sunlight, skimming low over the field with the seeker right behind. It kept down to the ground; the seeker followed closely, swerving around sharply at the last minute every time a jutting bit of granite got in the way.

Suddenly it disappeared. So did the seeker.

A shadow flashed across the moor. The kid had shot upwards so fast, he'd missed the move. A blur was diving towards the woodlands now - was he _crazy?_ - and the snitch was nowhere in sight.

He gasped. The kid had actually dove right into the thick vegetation of the woodland. He grabbed a broom from one of his companions and followed.

Hovering above the woodlands, he realized he needn't have worried - the kid was ducking and flying round among the branches without a scratch. And he was still hot on the tail of the Golden Snitch.

The snitch darted upriver. The kid followed.

Higher - and higher - they were on the highland part of the moor now. The river rose high on the moor and cut steep sided valleys as it left the granite upland, eroding into the surrounding killas. The kid was practically skimming the water surface, side brushing against the earth of the valley.

The snitch suddenly darted downwards, through rock that had formed a natural low arch across the river.

SPLASH.

The audience gasped.

The seeker plunged into the water. _

Harry revelled in the feeling of flying once more. The wind roaring in his ears, the rock rushing up to meet him -

Hard right. Down - _down!_ Left - right - _argh,_ _missed __it_! _Up,__now!_

He streaked across the sky.

Just a little more..._oh __no __you __don't_ -

They were directly above the woodlands. The snitch plummeted.

Harry dove.

Left - right- left - _bloody __branches_ - left - left - _aaahhh_ -_barrel __roll!_ -phew - down - _not __the __river __you __stupid __snitch!_

Ice cold water sprayed in his face. Stupid river wasn't yet frozen. Did the snitch _have_ to fly so close to the water?

Rock - _duck!_ Water - can't see - lower - toes in the water - numb -

_A__ROCK__ARCHWAY?_ AHHHHHHHH...

SPLASH.

Harry plunged up to his knees in water and leaned foward as low as possible on the broom.

His hair brushed the roof of the arch.

_I'm __soaked. __Bloody __snitch. __I'm __so __going __to __get __you __now_ -

Finally! It's leaving the water! - _FOR __A __CHASM?_

The snitch plummeted into the narrow chasm.

He wasn't kidding about it being tricky.

* * *

Harry plunged right after it, standing sideways on his broom and dropping vertically downwards - the only way he'd fit into the silt in the ground. His chest and back scraped the walls of earth.

The snitch zoomed down - and down - and down -

It was getting narrower. He couldn't let it reach the bottom.

The only option was to fall faster than the Snitch.

He had a brainwave.

Using his palms he braced himself against the walls of the chasm. Holding himself in place, he let the broom continue to drop - without him.

Two feet - three feet - four feet -

He let go.

A deafening roar in his ears. Adrenaline surged and blood rushed to his head.

He hit the tail of his broomstick. It did a 360-degree-turn, Harry hanging off one end. Then it swung back into equilibrium.

Harry was launched forward.

Flying without a broom. But not for long.

The snitch was right there. In front of him.

Now to see if the Plumpton Pass was real move.

He sailed forward, hands extended together, sleeves billowing. He overtook the snitch.

And slammed his hands into the walls on both sides, halting his fall. Quickly he clamped his left hand around the mouth of his right sleeve. His right palm braced against the wall, his left elbow digging into the opposite side.

In this akward position he dangled until his broom caught up to him. He grabbed it with one hand then ascended slowly upwards. His fingers still wrapped firmly round his right wrist. _

"Ragmar, dear!"

Ragmar was busy trying to spot the snitch the kid on his broom was obviously following, and did not appreciate the interruption.

"What, Rita?"

"What, no hello? And here I thought you had invited me here to cover your Snitch-hunting. I'm a busy woman, Ragmar. I have better things to do than to entertain the manager of a Quidditch team at the bottom of the league. I'm only here because you asked so nicely."

"Oh, don't worry, Rita. The Chudley Cannons won't be at the bottom of the league much longer." smiled Ragmar. "Look there."

Rita looked, and she whistled.

"You spotted the snitch?"

"Yes, and I've got my best lad after it."

"Well then I'm sorry to say, but I'm afraid that your best lad is about to cra- "

What happened next shut her up all on her own.

The kid stood up on his broom and dropped into a chasm without missing a beat.

"See what I mean?" said Ragmar smugly. "I tell you, the kid is history in the making."

Rita picked her jaw off the ground and snapped at her photographers.

"Well, what are you waiting for? I want _every __single __minute_ on film!"

They kicked off at once.

"AND BRING THE OMNICULARS!"

The kid emerged from the chasm hanging from his broom by a hand.

The moor went still. Everyone held their breath and fixed their eyes on the slight figure. He glided over and alighted next to Ragmar.

Ragmar stared at the hand clamped tightly over the sleeve, hardly daring to hope.

The kid reached inside his sleeve and raised his hand into the air.

Clutched in his fist was a tiny, fluttering golden ball.

"MERLIN! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU! I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS! _THE__SNITCH__OF__BODMIN__MOOR_!"

The kid passed him the Snitch, now docile in his palm.

"Thanks for your broom." He grinned. "That was the most fun I've had in a long time."

Ragmar examined the Snitch in awe.

"Kid, you're a prodigy. You'll go down in the history books, you will."

The kid looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"Well, what's your name, kid?"

"Uhhhl... ahh... ah... Arrow! Um... Philip Arrow!"

"Arrow? I must say it suits you just fine. Well, Arrow, will you do me the honor of being the Chudley Cannons' new seeker?"

Rita snapped a picture of his flabbergasted expression. It would make the front page the next day.

* * *

**The snitch living wild on Bodmin Moor is mentioned in Quidditch Through the Ages. So is the Plumpton Pass -**

_**Seeker Move; a seemingly careless swerve that scoops the Snitch up one's sleeve. Named after Roderick Plumpton, Tutshill Tornado seeker, who employed the move in his famous record-breaking Snitch Catch of 1921. **_

**The stone circles and granite and jutting rocks and Hawks Tor and whatevernot really exist on the real Bodmin Moor in Cornwall. I got the landscape from www. bodminmoor . co . uk. to plan the chase. And according to Google Maps it takes about 5 hours to travel from London to Cornwall so I figured from breakfast to late afternoon should be reasonable. **


	10. Author's Note

**Just a short notice to tell you that the rewrite of the story starting from chapter 6 to chapter 9 complete. Kindly refer authors' note of said chapters for more information. Thank you. **

**This will be deleted as soon as chapter 10 is complete.**


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